Cammers With Benefits

“That’s a good point. You know what?” I say and squeeze his hand. “I’ll show you my paintings tonight. It would be good to have someone tell me what they really think. I know this sounds stupid, but I’ve always dreamed of being good enough that I could see them hanging on the walls at a movie theater.

“I’m sure you can make that happen. In fact, I’m going to make sure—”

As he’s talking, I see the car out of the corner of my eye. But like every cliché movie, time seems to freeze every other thing except for the grill of the Range Rover getting closer and closer. Bigger and bigger. And I can’t say anything. Can’t move. I’m utterly powerless as, mid-sentence, Brice is pulled away from me in an instant, replaced with the black blur of the SUV that spins out of control. Somehow the chaos has left me unscathed, saved by a matter of inches. But I’m suddenly alone and looking back at the broken body of my best-friend-turned-lover.

And he’s not moving.

Part III

Broken

Chapter 9

I never understood what people meant when they said that everything was a blur. I wish I could still say I didn’t understand. But looking back at the past twelve hours, only flashes of memory rise up through the bubbling ooze of horror and tears.

I remember leaning over him. Feeling for breath. Wondering how to give CPR to a person lying on their belly. I knew I shouldn’t move him. That much I was sure of. But I had to do something.

Then came the taste and smell of vomit. My brain was whispering that I’d lost him while my heart screamed out that it couldn’t be true. The Range Rover that caused this was wrapped around a streetlight. I couldn’t see the driver from my position on the ground beside Brice. Nor did I care to check on him. All that mattered—all that existed—was the broken boy in front of me.

When the ambulance arrived, I forced myself on board with him, heaving and sobbing as they injected his limp body with half a dozen needles, inserted a tube down his throat, and screamed words at each other that I’d only heard in hospital dramas. Words that held no meaning to me except a foreboding connotation.

Then we were at the hospital and they wouldn’t allow me to follow. I was told to wait. To sit. To call his family. I obeyed only this last request, though I still have no idea what words I actually said to Brice’s mother. All I remember were sobs that were echoed back at me from the other side of the phone. Then the line was dead, and I was alone, pacing the waiting room, feeling nothing except this hollowness and the burning of bile in the back of my throat.

The hours ticked by at a glacial pace. Never before had I felt time move so slowly. At some point, I was hugging Brice’s mother. Explaining in sobs what happened. I left out the parts about blood oozing out of his mouth as he lay on the asphalt. Nor did I describe the odd angles of his legs. I didn’t share my horrible suspicion that even if he lived through this, he would never be the same.

Greg called me four times. I ignored each call and pushed his existence out of my brain. Nothing else mattered except for Brice. Not money. Not a contract. Nothing.

Maggie left at some point. I don’t remember why, but I promised to keep watch. But at some point, I failed my duties. I don’t remember falling asleep in the waiting room, but a doctor was shaking me awake.

The disorienting feeling of waking in a place you don't remember, by a man you have never met, is enough to send my brain into fight or flight mode. But it’s been an exhausting day, and my body burns through the last dregs of adrenaline in seconds. Then I’m in tears again as everything comes back.

“How is—?” That’s all I can get out. Brice’s name is stuck in my throat.

“Still in critical condition, but we’ve managed to stabilize him. For now.”

“Can I see him?”

The doctor shakes his head. This is the first time that I take in his appearance. I determine to memorize it, plus his nametag, in case I need to speak to the person clearly in charge of Brice. The doctor is in his late forties, I would guess, with a head of dirty blond hair that hides his gray strands well. He reminds me of a softball player on my stepdad’s old team. His name is Dr. Heyman, which I might have found comical under different circumstances.

“I’m afraid not. We’ve got him in the ICU. But I’ll make sure you can get in tomorrow. You’re not family, right?”

I shake my head.

“The nurses told me as much. It’s fine. As far as I’m concerned, anyone who refuses to leave this depressing waiting room all day is as good as family.”

Scanning the walls for a clock, I confirm that it’s past midnight. No wonder I dozed off. After all that stress, my brain must have needed a power nap to recover. “It didn’t feel that long.”

“Have you eaten? Or had anything to drink?” After another shake of my head, he nods towards the elevators. “The lobby has the best vending machines. Come on. My treat.”

My feet don’t move. “I’d rather stay here,” I hear my voice say even as my stomach growls. “What if something happens to Brice while I’m gone?”

“In that case, I’ll get a beep. Besides, I hate eating alone and you remind me of my daughter. But I bet you won’t ask me to buy you a new car.”

“Will you tell me more about what’s going on with Brice?”

He nods and presses the elevator button. The doors open and he beckons me in. “The first thing I’ll tell you is that Brice is going to need you more than ever. And you’re not going to be very helpful if you end up in the hospital for malnutrition.”

Once downstairs, Dr. Heyman inserts about a million quarters into the machine and comes back to the bench I’m sitting at with an armful of sodas, honey buns, sandwiches, and at least five different types of chips. He holds up two sandwiches. “Choose your poison. A ham and cheese sandwich that expired yesterday or a chicken salad sandwich whose expiration date has been dubiously smudged?”