“Larry,” he says softly, “you should call Ad. She’s worried.”
“Later. And I’m not leaving.”
“I know. I just?—”
“I’m not leaving, but you can go, Nate. She needs you,” I tell him.
He studies me for a long second.
Then he squeezes my shoulder.
“I’ll come back in the morning.”
I nod.
I don’t feel anything anymore.
Time stops meaning anything.
Minutes stretch.
The automatic doors slide open and shut over and over.
Every time they move, I look up.
Every time it’s not for me.
I call his phone just to hear his voicemail message.
I pray.
I bargain.
I promise everything to whoever’s listening.
I sit there twelve hours.
Twelve.
My mascara is long gone.
My hands are cold.
My body is numb.
And then—I hear a ruckus. Shouting. Machines beeping.
A nurse hurries into the waiting area.
“Hilary Sinclair?”
I stand so fast the chair scrapes.
“Yes.”
“He’s asking for you.”
My knees almost give out.