“Jo …”
“I’m just saying. One night. Get it out of your system. You may not even be a match, then you can both move on and never have to wonder again.”
I stare at my glass. The idea sits there, warm and dangerous, like a match struck in a room full of gasoline.Just once.Get it out of our systems. We may not even be a match, then we can move on and never have to wonder again.
That is the worst idea you’ve ever had.Or the best.
26
FISH
Murphy’s is quiet for a Thursday afternoon. I’m in our usual booth in the back, scrolling on my phone, waiting for Evan, who is late. Which is unusual because the man is pathologically punctual. He had a photo shoot at the arena this afternoon with the content team.With Collette. Who I’m not thinking about. I order another beer and tell myself the tightness in my chest is because I’m hungry and not because my best friend is spending the afternoon with the woman I love, while I sit here alone in a pub like some tragic main character in a movie nobody asked to watch.
Fifteen minutes late.
Then twenty.
I text him, he is never late.
Fish: Where are you?
Nothing. No reply. No read receipt. I stare at the screen. Evan always responds immediately.Always.The man treats an unread text like a personal insult.
Twenty-five minutes. I order some fries because I need to do something with my hands that isn’t refreshing my messages.
Thirty minutes. I call him.
He picks up on the third ring. “Hey.”
“Where are you? You were supposed to be here half an hour ago. Did you not get my text?”
“I’m at the arena.” His voice sounds different. “Collette had an accident.”
Everything stops. The noise in the pub, the music, the conversation at the next table, all of it drops away.
“What do you mean, an accident? What happened? Is she okay?” Panic takes over my body.
“She slipped on the ice during the shoot. She wasn’t wearing skates. Went down hard, hit her head, and knocked herself out for a minute. She’s in the medical room now. She’s awake, but she’s got a cut on her head, and her wrist is messed up.”
I’m already standing. I’ve thrown cash on the table, and I’m pulling my jacket on and heading for the door before he finishes the sentence.
“I’m coming.”
“Fish, you don’t have to …”
I hang up. Murphy’s is across the road from the arena. I’m through the doors and past security in under two minutes. The corridors are mostly empty at this time of day, and my sneakers squeaking on the concrete echoes as I move fast toward the medical wing. I don’t think about the fact that I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. I don’t think of my damaged heart because the only thing that matters is that she is fine. I need to see with my own eyes that she is okay.
I round the corner and push through the medical room door. Evan is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. One of the team medics is wrapping Collette’s wrist. She is sitting on the treatment table, looking small and pale, with a butterfly bandage above her left eyebrow and an expression that shifts through about six emotions in the space of a second when shesees me. Surprise. Confusion. Embarrassment. Something soft. Something scared. And then the walls go up.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Evan told me what happened.”
“I’m fine. It’s just a bump.”
“You were knocked out.” I look at the medic. “Was she knocked out?”
“Briefly, yes. She’s responsive now. No signs of concussion, but we’re recommending she take it easy tonight. Someone should keep an eye on her. The wrist is a mild sprain. We’ve wrapped it, but it needs ice and elevation.”