Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

She shakes her head as tears flow from her eyes and down her cheeks, her voice louder and higher pitched.

“I just want one more hour with him, one more day. I want to hear his voice, Connor. Smell his hair. We can’t . . . we can’t lose him like this!”

I go down to my knees in front of her, pulling her into my arms and pressing her face to my shoulder as she unravels.

“I know, Stace. I know.”

Her hands twist in my shirt.

“I wasted all that time and I’m so sorry!”

“Shhh, easy.” I run my hand down the back of her hair, my voice calming. “You have to keep it together. I know it’s hard, but this is the ICU; they will kick you out of here and I won’t be able to do anything to stop it.”

She nods against me, pulling in a shuddering breath.

“It’s going to be different, Connor, I promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Everything’s going to be different between us from now on.”

I rock her gently while she cries.

“I know it will be. It’s okay; we’re going to be okay, Stacey. You and me and the boys—we’re all going to be all right.”

* * *

Violet

“It’s going to be different, Connor, I promise.”

Shit.

“Everything’s going to be different between us from now on.”

Shit, shit, shit.

“We’re going to be okay, Stacey.”

I’m going to be sick. My stomach coils and twists and it’s all my own fault.

Garrett and Callie stopped by the house to see the boys, so I drove to the hospital to drop off coffee for Connor and Stacey. The good stuff, not the turpentine they’ve probably been drinking from the break room or the vending machine. I thought they could use it.

And then when I heard them speaking, I waited outside the door to Aaron’s room.

Because I didn’t want to interrupt.

I wasn’t listening . . . I was waiting. But then the words were just there.

“You and me and the boys—we’re all going to be all right.”

And because curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it broke its fucking heart too—I peeked around the corner into the room. And I saw Connor holding Stacey in his arms, touching her hair.

I left after that—went down to the ED and talked with my coworkers, my friends. After twenty minutes, I walked back to the ICU. Stacey’s eyes were puffy and Connor was somber, but they were sitting in their own chairs. I gave them the coffees and pretended like I’d just gotten there.

My stomach was still churning, but I didn’t let it show.

Maybe he was just comforting her. Jesus—that would be understandable. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.

But it could.

And now their words are in my head. On repeat. Burrowing like a worm. Sucking at my soul like some kind of evil alien parasite.

I’m not jealous . . . I don’t work like that. I trust Connor completely. He’s a good man, an honest man, he cares about me so much—I feel it every time I’m with him.

But I remember my parents. I remember one of the dozens of times my mom said it was “really over.” And then Darren broke his arm skateboarding. And she called my dad because she needed someone, and he came home.

And it wasn’t anything close to over anymore.

Emergencies clarify things. Show you what’s important, strip away the trivial and petty, block out anything that doesn’t matter. I’ve seen it, I know it, I’ve lived it. A sick child can tear a couple apart . . . or pull them right back together again.

That’s how emotions work. How need and connections and histories work.

How family works sometimes.

And Connor’s family is everything to him.

I can’t think about this right now—and I can’t ask Connor about it. His son is in the ICU, still critical. In the grand scheme of things, it’s small and inconsequential.

Aaron is what matters.

So I put Connor and Stacey’s words aside. And I do what needs to be done. Push on.

I don’t let myself think about it. I don’t get upset.

And I try my hardest to forget I ever heard it.

* * *

“He’s awake.”

Connor calls me the next day, his voice rough with exhaustion, but lighter than it’s been in the three days since the accident.

“He’s awake, Violet. He’s weak and still running a temperature and he’s out of it from the pain meds, but he knows what’s going on.”

This is good—it’s everything. Cool, sweet relief shoots through my veins—for Connor and Aaron . . . for all of us.

Due to his fever, Aaron still can’t have visitors, so I stay at the house with Brayden and Spencer. In the early evening I start to make them dinner. It’s my mom’s chicken cutlet recipe—a comfort food cure for all things. But just as I’m about to heat up the oil, my phone pings with an incoming text from Connor.