Happenstance 3 (Happenstance 3)

“Of course,” I said.

She walked into the hallway, looked both ways, and then turned left toward the elevators. Her voice could barely be heard as she greeted the women at the nurses’ station, and a few moments later, the elevator chimed, signaling its arrival to the floor.

I stood in the corner where I’d retreated from the nurse, watching as Weston put one wrist behind his head with an indeterminable expression on his face.

“Biscuits and gravy sound really good.” As if on cue, my stomach growled, and I touched my white shirt with both hands.

“You stayed here all night,” he said, not at all a question.

I nodded once and crossed my arms over my middle, wondering what he’d wanted to say that had to wait until his mother left.

He looked down toward his toes, lost in thought. “You can lie to me. I won’t hold it against you.”

“What?” I asked.

Deep sadness touched his eyes. “I meant what I said. Even if you leave for Stillwater, love OSU, and never come back, my memories of the next few weeks won’t mean as much if you’re not in them. I don’t want you to make promises you can’t keep, Erin…but right now, I can say that I’d be okay with a lie. Just lie to me. Let’s do the prom thing, celebrate graduation like crazy people, and have the best summer of all time. We’ll just get on the roller coaster, ride, and pretend that it’s never going to end.”

“Still winging it?”

One corner of my mouth pulled up, but his jaw tensed.

“No,” he said. “You’ve always been the plan. It’ll always be you.”

I walked over to his bedside and leaned down. Stopping just short of his lips, I searched his eyes for a promise or some sign that he could somehow see the future. His fingers gripped my arms as he pulled me the few inches to touch his mouth to mine.

One day, he might let me go but not in that moment. Eighteen, with a lifetime ahead, he was asking me to lose myself in the last scene of my childhood, to get lost somewhere in the summer of us. I had already been adrift my entire life, and what he was asking of me now was particularly frightening.

When Weston said things like that though, what I always wanted to lose was any thoughts of being found.

“Babe?” he whispered, searching my eyes. The beeping on the monitor picked up a bit.

Whether it was naïveté or foolish hope to think we were the kind of people who lived in that parallel universe where high school love could last, I didn’t just want to believe. I wanted to trust him even if it would only be until August.

“Deal,” I said.

Offering only a half smile in response, his palm settled on the back of my messy hair, and he pulled me close until his lips touched mine. His tongue slipped into my mouth—dancing with mine, slow and sweet—as he sealed the promise we’d just made, and then he pulled me onto the bed.

His nose nuzzled against my neck, and I giggled, impervious to anyone who might hear. He was holding me close, and he was relaxed, relieved, and maybe still feeling the effects of sedation.

A knock on the door made us pause, and then I turned to see Dr. Shuart standing there in a white jacket and collared plaid shirt.

“And how is Mr. Gates this morning?” he asked, walking in with a nurse. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re just fine.”

My cheeks flushed red, and once again, I shrank back to the chair in the corner. Weston wasn’t fazed. He had a smug grin on his face.

“This is Dacia,” Dr. Shuart said, just slightly turning his shoulder in her direction.

Dacia nodded to me and smiled a greeting to Weston. Then, she went back to scrawling on the paper in the open binder she held. “Weston is our last patient, Doctor. You have ten minutes to get back to the office before your first appointment, so don’t stop downstairs to chat. Go straight over,” she said in a motherly tone.

Dr. Shuart turned his back to her and raised his eyebrows once. “She is the cracker of the whip. Keeps me in line.”

“Someone has to,” she muttered, still writing.

I sat back in the overstuffed recliner, pulling out my phone to text Veronica, as Dr. Shuart chatted with Weston. They discussed his prescriptions, and Dr. Shuart explained that Weston would need one more breathing treatment before his release.

The doctor and Dacia waved good-bye to me before leaving the room, and my phone chimed.

“Your mom wants me to ask the doctor to come back in fifteen minutes,” I said. “Apparently, the drive-through line is exceptionally long.”

“She said that?” Weston asked, dubious.

“She might have said, ‘The damn line.’”

“I don’t think Dacia will go for it.”

“I think you’re right,” I said, filling my back pocket with my cell phone. I looked at my watch.

“Are you working today?” Weston asked.

“Hair appointment with Julianne. But I’m going to cancel.”

“You’ve already canceled once. Go ahead. I don’t want you watching me puff on that stupid nebulizer anyway. I’ll feel ridiculous.”

“It’s not for another hour. And I’m looking forward to biscuits and gravy.”

“You’re afraid my mom will be pissed about you leaving me here alone, aren’t you?” He smirked.

“That, too.”

My phone chimed again. I pulled it out of my pocket, read the message, and then left the phone on my lap.

“Who was that?” Weston asked.

“Julianne, reminding me about the appointment.”

Veronica walked in with two plastic sacks, exasperated. I stood to help her, but my phone crashed to the floor.

“Uh-oh!” Veronica said.

I turned it over and sighed in relief when I saw the screen was still intact. I took a step toward Veronica, but she shooed me away, so I sat on the bed with Weston. She handed each of us a Styrofoam container with a closed flip-top lid and a package filled with plasticware and a napkin.

Once the lid was open and with a fork in hand, Weston dug in, ravenous. I struggled with the plastic knife as I attempted to cut the biscuits, so it took me twice as long to finish, but I didn’t mind. The gravy was creamy and peppery, and my taste buds were singing praises to the gods of Southern cooking and whoever had thought of and perfected the combination of grease, flour, and milk.