Page 187 of One Big Little Secret

The boy might be my son and a damn good kid, but I’ve only known him for a whisper. Barely a couple months. Such a tiny portion of my life for a little human who’s become a bigger piece of my world than the sky.

No fucking crying now.

No rough words.

No freaking out and flying fists.

You need to be there for her.

You need to bethere.

The traffic is god-awful thanks to some big concert downtown, plus the usual stream of latecomers running their errands.

Arlo must be okay.

For me, for Salem, for our family.

My mind reels, wondering if we’ll have to tell my mother that Arlo was my kid and that she never had a chance to know him.

What if he never finds out I’m his dad?

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until I think I’ll tear it right off.

When I finally arrive at the hospital, parking is atrocious. I slam my way into an empty space, not bothering to make sure I parked straight, and sprint for the entrance through the vast garage.

Upstairs, the receptionist directs me to the waiting room. I take the stairs three at a time, leaping through the last corridor until finally I see her.

Salem.

She’s tucked away in the corner of the waiting room, her legs crooked under her. She’s just staring at the wall.

It’s like someone picked her up and poured her soul out.

“Salem,” I call, and her head jerks up. Some of the emptiness drains from her face, replaced by relief, and she uncurls herself, holding out a hand.

Then her face crumples.

“Salem,” I growl again, pulling her into my arms.

Awkwardness forgotten—everything but this, the painful knowledge that our son is seriously sick and there’s nothing either of us can do.

She wraps her arms around me and buries her head in my shoulder. I cradle her closer, wishing I could whisk her away. There’s nothing more depressing than a waiting room filled with worried souls, just like the woman in my arms.

This is where people go to wait for miracles. Waiting and hoping because no one can guarantee life, not even if they have an MD behind their name. What else is there to do in a hospital waiting room but quietly scream at God and the universe?

Salem’s hand pulls me closer, just for a second, before she shrinks back.

I slide a hand through her hair and smooth it down her cheek, though she isn’t crying. Her red eyes say there’s been too much of that already.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you,” she whispers, one hand gripping my wrist like she’s scared I’ll disappear into thin air if she stops.

Fuck.

It’s so easy for her to say that, and it unlocks something in my chest.

“Missed you, too, Lady Bug. I wouldn’t be anywhere else. How are you? How’s Arlo?”

The question I need to ask and almost don’t want to know.

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