Yet as much as I dreaded this confrontation, the reality of it turned out to be infinitely worse, the pain in Emma’s eyes more devastating than any verbal lashing. I was prepared for her anger, but not that lifeless “good luck” and “goodbye.”
Her bright head disappears through the ballroom doors, and it’s like the sun just set, stealing all the warmth from the room. And I know that if she walks out of my life, this cold will grow and engulf me, coating me in a layer of ice that no amount of joy or happiness will ever penetrate.
I don’t consciously make the choice to begin walking; my feet move forward of their own accord. All around me are confused looks and murmurs, my name being called out on all sides. The conference organizer jogs up to me, hissing, “It’s almost eight. We need you up there now, Carelli,” but I step around him, picking up my pace.
The crowd is thickening with last-minute arrivals, and I push my way through them, muttering “excuse me” left and right. As soon as I’m out in the hallway, I break into a run.
Emma is already crossing the street when I rush out of the hotel, with the conference organizer on my heels.
“Emma, wait!” I call out, but she doesn’t hear me, her small figure weaving in and out of traffic, oblivious to the slow-moving cars. She’s so upset she doesn’t realize the light has just turned red, I comprehend with a surge of dread, and ignoring the organizer’s attempt to grab my sleeve, I leap into the intersection after her.
It’s rush hour, with the usual insanity on Fifth Avenue—which means any lengthening in the usual two-foot distance between cars is greeted by drivers madly surging forward, desperate to cut in front of others. And I see such a lengthening happening in front of Emma as a white van accelerates much slower than the nimble sports car it’s following.
“Emma!” I shout at the top of my lungs, but with the noise of traffic, she can’t hear me. Her head is down as she steps in front of the van, her hands clutching the lapels of her ancient coat to protect her neck against the freezing wind. She doesn’t see the danger, doesn’t notice the yellow cab revving up its engine next to the van—and with the van blocking the cab driver’s view, I doubt he sees her.
My heart rate skyrocketing, I launch into a sprint, ignoring the panicked honking all around me. My lungs pump like I’m in the last stretches of a marathon, my vision narrowing until all I see is that small, red-haired figure and the cab about to swerve into her.
“Emma!”
I’m now close enough for my frantic bellow to reach her, and she turns, only to freeze in place, her eyes widening as she sees me—and the cab barreling at her. In a flash, I take in the driver’s terror-stricken face as he registers her presence, hear the squealing of the brakes, and I know he won’t stop in time.
It’s physically impossible.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, each millisecond startlingly vivid as the deafening roar of my pulse separates into distinct heartbeats.
Thump-thump. I put on a burst of speed.
Thump-thump. I launch myself into the air, my arms outstretched.
Thump-thump. Emma’s face, ghost white, her lips forming my name as my hands collide with her chest, the impact throwing her back five feet—and out of harm’s way.
Thump. A massive force slams into my side, and darkness engulfs me.
46
Emma
My back hits the asphalt so hard that for a few long seconds, I can’t breathe, my vision going in and out. Then, with a wheeze, my lungs drag in air, and I bounce up to my feet, driven by a terror so hideous I’m oblivious to any and all pain.
“Marcus!” Ignoring the dizziness trying to fell me, I rush toward the prone figure in a business suit sprawled on the asphalt a few feet away.
All the cars are now at full stop, the drivers jumping out and yelling. The yellow cab driver starts shouting curses at me, but I pay him zero attention. All my focus is on the man lying on his back in front of the cab, his face partially turned away and his arm at an odd angle.
Dropping to my knees in front of Marcus, I frantically search for the pulse in his neck, and a sob of relief bursts from my throat as I feel it, strong and steady. But then I notice blood pooling around his head, and the hideous fear returns with a vengeance.
“He needs an ambulance!” I look around, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. I can’t find it, and my panic spikes. “Someone call 911!”
“They’re already on their way,” a man in a gray suit says, sounding out of breath as he kneels next to me. “I can’t believe Carelli jumped in front of that—holy shit, you’re about to pass out.”