Better With You (Better Love 2)

On New Year’s Eve,a text from Riggs buzzes through five minutes before midnight. I could say I don’t know why I kept my phone on me instead of putting it in my locker, but that would be a lie.

This text. The text from him. That’s why I kept it.

He sends me a picture of him and Odette, both wearing silver sparkly party crowns, and Riggs is raising a glass of champagne. I notice they are in her bedroom, she’s propped on the headboard, and she’s got her nasal cannula in. She looks tired, but her smile is genuine and warm.

Riggs:Happy New Year, Sundance.

Riggs:I hope this one is filled with love, laughter, and happy memories.

I smile at his message, then snap a picture of me in my jeans and band tee, a maraschino cherry between my teeth. It’s not until I hit send that I realize there’s a couple sucking face at the bar behind me. Awesome. Then I send him one of my favorite New Year’s quotes.

Me: “May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.”

Riggs:Neil Gaiman.

I shake my head with a grin. Of course, he knows it. Of course, he does. I’m about to respond when another text from him comes in. Another Neil Gaiman quote, and my heart squeezes.

Riggs:“Whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life. Whatever it is you're scared of doing, Do it.”

Me:Happy New Year, Butch. Give Odette a hug from me.

Me:Talk soon?

Riggs:I’ll be waiting.

Two nights later,I’m sitting on the balcony, bundled in a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa, when my phone rings. I smile at the name on the screen. I haven’t spoken to him since our text exchange on New Year’s Eve, and I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to call him.

Seems he’s beaten me to it.

“Hello?” I answer, but I’m met with silence. I furrow my brow. “Hello? Riggs?”

“Sundance,” his voice cracks, and my stomach bottoms out. He sounds utterly broken.

“Riggs, what’s wrong?”

“Can you come here? It’s Mom... it’s bad. I’m sorry to ask—”

“No, I’m on my way. Are you at the condo?”

“No. Northwestern Memorial.”

The hospital.

“I’ll be there soon.”

“Thank you.”