“Julian, I—,”
“Is it because you’re a coward who runs away from his so-called problems? Or maybe you’re not man enough to recognize that your son has Down syndrome and with that comes other health risks?”
I feel her before I hear her sharp gasp coming from behind me.
I close my eyes, the fight leaving my body as tension, pain, grief, anger and helplessness all come crashing down into my soul with a vengeance that weakens my knees and my voice.
“Julian—,”
“Mom isn’t doing well, but the doctors want both of you down here. Right now.” And with that, I cut the call, but I don’t turn around.
I need a moment to compose myself.
I have a lot that I need to do. I need to make sure that this girl, whoever she is, doesn’t breathe a single word about what she just heard to anyone or I will ruin her life.
Glancing down at my bleeding knuckles, I try taking a deep breath, but my chest is tight. Everything is tight and heavy.
Should I be feeling this way or are those just side effects of knowing that your older brother is going to die soon and your parents—who should be here protecting him—don’t give a damn?
My phone rings again, but I can’t bring myself to answer it.
Before I can react, a small, soft hand with light pink—or is it purple?—nail polish reaches for my bleeding knuckle and suddenly I stop shaking. I didn’t even know I was trembling this hard.
She grabs the ringing phone, and without blinking she answers it, pressing the iPhone to her ear.
My head shoots up so fast, catching her gaze, a sharp retort on my tongue, but it dies down the moment I lock eyes with her.
“Listen here, you selfish, shitty parent with no morals. Instead of harassing your son, why don’t you come down here and be there for your family! Stop calling and stop making excuses. Just come down here!”
And with that, she cuts the phone, switches it off, then delicately slips it in my front jean pocket, all while holding my gaze.
It’s in that moment that a tidal wave crashes into my chest, washing over me to a point where I feel like I’m going to drown. It’s like standing over a cliff with sharp rocks below and I’m about to happily fall over, drawn by her overwhelming allure. It’s her.
This girl.
She. Sees. Me.
Every single inch of me, she sees me.
I suck in another labored breath. It seems I’ve been doing this since I first saw her dancing in the rain, but now, I think the axis of my entire world is shifting as I stare down into her beautiful eyes.
I don’t dare blink as we stare at each other in that lonely hallway, reserved for the worst cases—I think.
Grief lingers in the air, death looming over us, but somehow, I sink into the unknown depths of her eyes. Into the captivating, tortured depths of a girl I was sure was going to break my heart into shreds.
It didn’t take her long to do just that.
2
“Let’s get this cleaned and wrapped up,” I murmur, feeling like my brain was just dumped in an industrial-like, rusty deep fryer from Popeyes.
He stares at me like I’m the source of his anger, but he doesn’t say a word.
Did I overstep? Did I make him even angrier? Why did I grab his phone like that?
With burning mortification that I’d rather die before I ever show him, I quickly look away from his powerful gaze.
What the hell is going on with this stranger? What is it about him that twists me up inside and breaches my boundaries this hard?
“Why?” he questions, tracing my every twitch and movement.
“Because you’re bleeding, duh.”
“You’re not a doctor,” he growls low in his chest, that terse anger back again. “Or a nurse for that matter. What makes you think I can trust you with me?”
I don’t know why that question somehow feels like it matters, like he’s asking me something else.
My heart starts pounding hard and fast; I can’t breathe right and that makes this very moment so darn scary.
The way he watches me. The way he steps closer.
When he breathes in, I breathe out, it’s scary.
My stomach dips—for the millionth time since I first saw him earlier today. There’s something about him…
“This isn’t about trust,” I whisper, keeping my voice low, avoiding his penetrating gaze.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“What is it about then?”
I know what he wants to hear. I know that this is a serious moment but for some reason I’m scared shitless right now. So, I revert back to my default setting.
“This is about you not bleeding all over the hospital floors. Rich boys like you know nothing about the hard work that custodians put in cleaning hospitals.”
An eyebrow shoots up and then he closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, the moment is gone, and I feel like a stupid, self-sabotaging fraud.
“I guess rich girls like you, with your fancy shoes and designer shirts, have personal experience?” he mocks. “Don’t tell me Daddy’s a custodian and Mommy’s what, a government worker? Maybe at the DMV?”
He’s sarcastic, his words clipped and angry. I get the sense that he isn’t a guy that talks a lot, but right now, he’s hurting and vulnerable. Something I can understand.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I chide, rolling my eyes. “My father’s days of blue-collar work are long gone, thank God. No way would we afford trips to Milan every fashion week, or weekend getaways to the Canary Islands.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder, knowing that the last time my parents and I were together for a weekend getaway was two years ago. There’s something going on with my parents and the fact that Dad isn’t here to help Mom hurts. A lot. So, I push that deep down and finish.
“He married a woman that can’t cook to save her own life, but can do everything else a wife should, I think.” Or she used to. “Long story short, they had me and are now living happily ever after.”
I don’t know why I just said that. I’m never this open with strangers simply because everything I say can be used against me in my social life and I would never be caught dead being what Roxy said once about whining girls. They are “vulnerable.”
Thank God we’re both going to different high schools next week.
“Why do you say that like you’re trying to convince me?”
Gorgeous green eyes stare at me, probing my insides like he’s searching for something that I know isn’t there. He tilts his head to the left, studying me. I feel like I’m being invaded but I just stand there, letting him invade my soul like he has a right to.
“What do you mean?” I blink, unable to break away from the trance he’s weaving.
“That fairytale,” he starts, his voice dropping, eyes burning with questions neither of us wants answers to. “Is it real?”
“Fairytales are for little girls.” I look up, suddenly wanting to be something else in that moment. I don’t want to be a little girl. I don’t want to be fourteen, starting freshman year in a week because I know this guy is older. I want him to see me. “I’m not a little girl.”
“You’re trying not to be,” he counters.