Page 167 of A Little Complicated

“About damn time.” Dr. Scott nods. “I’m sure you have plenty of questions. What has Maverick told you?”

Maverick’s parents take full advantage of their opportunity, peppering Dr. Scott with questions as I sit on the edge of the bed beside Maverick’s hand. He lifts it, making more room for me, and places his palm on my thigh. I stare at his innocent touch, surprised by how much I need it. Then, I peek at Maverick on the bed. I assume he's listening to whatever Dr. Scott says, but instead, he’s staring at me. Curious. Hesitant. Unsure. And looking so damn tired, I want to snuggle against his chest and shut the rest of the world out for at least twenty-four hours.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be.” He squeezes my leg. “You were right. It’s not like I can run from this forever.”

“The good news,” Dr. Scott announces, “is your name has officially moved up the list. Thanks to today’s event, you’re our top candidate for a transplant.”

“Doc,” Maverick warns, but Aunt Mia cuts him off.

“He’s already on the list?” There’s hope in her voice as she turns to Mav. “You’re already on the list?”

“Mom—”

“I had to twist his arm,” Dr. Scott admits, “but, yes. He’s on the list and has been for a while now. As I said, he was initially quite low on it, but considering how quickly your son is declining, the board has decided to honor my recommendation. Now, it’s simply a waiting game until a match becomes available.”

“How long?” Uncle Henry questions. He steps closer to his wife and wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her into him.

The doctor hesitates, lifting a shoulder. “Unfortunately, there’s no way to know how long it will take or how quickly Maverick’s heart will continue fighting, but I’m hopeful.”

Not a promise. Not a firm answer.

It isn’t exactly comforting, and I fight the burn behind my eyes.

“So what’s next?” Aunt Mia prods. “What do you need from us?’

“Your insurance is excellent, and he’s already been preapproved for the transplant,” Dr. Scott continues. “For now, you breathe, you keep your hope in check, and you convince your son to take it easy until we get the call there’s a match. Depending on how stable Maverick is, I can release him from the hospital, and he can go home, take iteasy,”—he gives Mav a pointed look—“and keep his phone close by. We continue treatment the best we can, we continue monitoring him, and we prepare for surgery. Any further questions?”

Maverick shakes his head, looking as overwhelmed as the rest of us feel.

Dr. Scott’s chin dips, and he steps backward toward the door. “Well, you have my number in case you think of anything. Nice meeting you, Dr. and Mrs. Buchanan. Your son’s a good kid.”

With a watery smile, Mia sniffles. “Thanks. We kind of love him.”

He chuckles. “I can see why. I’ll be back soon to check on you.” He gives Maverick another pointed look from behind his glasses. “I’m serious, Maverick. Take it easy.” Then he leaves.

51

MAVERICK

The beeping from the hospital machine sounds like nails on a chalkboard as I lie in bed. Ophelia’s asleep on the chair in the corner of the room. Her feet are tucked under her ass, and a scratchy maroon blanket covers her body. She stole her dad’s hat when her parents came in to check on me before heading out with everyone else. They wanted to stay—everyone did—but my dad had enough foresight to see how much I hated the attention and looks of pity. He sent them packing, promising them my mom would reach out with any updates. It took some arm twisting, but Archer convinced Mom and Dad to head home too. Our parents deserve to sleep in their own bed, and since my little sister has school in the morning, they eventually caved. Besides, a hospital is the last place a thirteen-year-old should hang out.

Now, it’s me, Archer, and Ophelia. I tried to push them into leaving, too, but they refused, and even though it pissed me off, I’m kind of grateful they were too stubborn to give in.

I don’t want to be alone.

Other than the constant beeping, it’s quiet. Too quiet.

Archer’s ignoring me.

He hasn’t said more than two words to me since Dr. Scott stopped by.

I don’t blame him.

It’s fucked-up.

Everything is.

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