“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, and as I say it, I realize it’s true. Part of me wants to shove my head into the ground, but that’s the cowardly part. The stronger side of me wants my friends to help me through this. “Come inside the room. If you throw up again I’ll hold your hair back.”
/> I help her inside, where she looks at my mother’s still form on the hospital bed with such a severe expression that I wonder if she’s going to throw up again. She must be remembering her own mother. The plane crash. “My God,” I whisper. “Was your last memory at the hospital?”
“Close,” Hugo says, his expression grim.
“I’m completely fine,” Bea says, her voice weak and very much not fine. It’s only a testament to her loyalty as a friend that she’s holding it together, but I feel the fine tremors shake her where I’m helping her stand.
“Sit down at least.” The gray cloth chair has questionable stains and is probably permanently molded into the shape of my ass, but at least she stops swaying when she’s there.
Hugo kneels down beside her, a look of worry on his handsome, angular face. There’s nothing of the seducer in him now. He looks elemental, all the walls he’s built up torn down to reveal a love so raw it hurts to look at it. “Rest, ma belle. We’re here now, so you can rest for a moment.”
“You must be dehydrated.” The last inch of coffee in my Styrofoam turned cold and lumpy a while ago. “Sutton went down to the gift shop in search of food a few minutes ago. I’m sure he’ll come back with a water bottle or something, or we can send him out again.”
Sutton will know how to fix this. That’s what he’s done for me the past few hours, for the whole time I’ve known him—found the sharp points in my world and smoothed them down. There’s a sense that I’m coasting along in this calm new landscape, closing my eyes as the wind hits my face, blind to the dangers around me.
It’s a relief after facing off with a man who turned every edge into a blade.
Bea faced a severe anxiety attack in order to be by my side, and even though I would have told her not to come, I’m touched. In contrast Christopher Bardot cannot even be moved to answer his phone. Sorry about missing the Death Plan, he could have sent in a text message, like a sad RSVP to a party he wouldn’t be attending.
Instead there’s only a ringing silence.
Hugo looks pained. “That’s the reason she insisted on coming here.”
“I’m so sorry,” Bea says, her green eyes filled with regret. “I know it violates the man code but I couldn’t break the girl code, and you really needed to know.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The library,” Hugo says.
Bea grimaces. “It’s never going to be fixed. Sutton lied about that. Maybe he was doing it to protect you. Or maybe he did it for… other reasons. But the construction crew that’s there isn’t going to be able to salvage it. It’s not even safe to be inside.”
The words don’t make sense. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Hugo says. “He feels bad about it.”
“Not bad enough to tell her the truth,” Bea says in an arch tone that sounds more like herself than she has in the past few minutes. There’s a little pink in her cheeks, too. Indignation looks good on her, but I’m still stuck on the word lied.
“Sutton lied to me?”
There’s a scuffing sound from behind me, the sole of a shoe against the large square tiles underfoot, and I turn to see Sutton in the doorway, a large paper bag in one hand, a balloon with roses on it trailing behind him in the hallway, bobbing uselessly in the air-conditioner draft.
“Perhaps we should leave them alone,” Hugo says, sounding somehow both guilty and accusing. I suppose I should be glad he was willing to defy his friendship in order to tell me the truth, but it feels a little too late—kind of like me reading the Death Plan.
“I’m staying right here,” Bea says, but she’s completely green now.
“Please go home,” I tell her fervently. “I’m only going to worry about you if you stay. And I’m pretty sure Hugo is about to have a stress aneurysm.”
She presses her hand to her mouth, eyes squeezes shut. “Honestly. Yes. Okay.”
Hugo looks immensely relieved as they give me a hug and kiss to say goodbye. Then I’m left alone in the room with the man I can’t quite look in the eye. I’m not sure whether I’m mad at him. Yes, I decide. I would be mad if I had any energy in my body to feel things.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I ask, but the question feels far away.
“Would you have let me stay if I had?”
I shake my head, but it’s not really an answer. It’s too hard to think in this room with people, even if it’s just one person. One person I shared my body with. Maybe even my heart, but never fully my trust. Maybe I knew Christopher was telling the truth about the library.
There’s only one man I’ve ever really trusted, even though I shouldn’t. I’m not sure if that makes me foolish or in love. Is there even a difference? I love Christopher, but like my mother’s love for my father, it doesn’t mean anything good. Love is a chain around my ankle. It’s an anchor bearing me to the bottom of the ocean.