Page 14 of Forbidden Dark Vows

I shared Harry’s beer at the party. He tripped over me at the ice rink. He told me that he worked in oil, and somehow that is a hundred times more personal than having Alessandro Russo’s tongue in my mouth.

“Apparently he’s in a critical but stable condition in the hospital.”

I’m already on my feet. I hear Mom say, “Where are you going? Your omelet’s ready,” as I dash into the den and switch the TV on.

The news reporter is standing outside the University of Chicago Hospital, a scarf tucked inside her coat and pulled up to her chin, her shoulders hunched up around her neck. It’s still snowing, and she looks as if she would rather be anywhere else than outside in the middle of the worst blizzard since 1979.

“All we know so far,” she says, “is that Alessandro Russo was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident. His brother, Carlos Russo, was seen arriving at the hospital a short while ago but declined to comment.”

“What about Harry?” I gravitate towards the screen and zone in on the reporter, willing her to mention the passenger in the car.

“The passenger, wealthy oil tycoon, Harry Weiss, is said to be in a critical condition. The eligible bachelors were travelling south on I-55 when the Porsche driven by Mr. Russo hit a patch of ice and skidded across the central median and into the path of an oncoming vehicle.”

I mute the sound, the reporter’s mouth still moving, and her eyes staring directly at me, leaving me alone with the silence.

Wealthy oil tycoon, Harry Weiss.

Eligible bachelors.

Harry told me that he was the boss, that it was early days for his business. He played it down like it was nothing to brag about, like the words ‘oil tycoon’ applied to other people who were not Harry Weiss. And she called him an eligible bachelor…

I pace the den. She made Harry sound like a player, another Alessandro Russo using women because he knew he could have anyone he wanted. Because every woman wants to hook an eligible bachelor, right? But that’s not the Harry Weiss I met at the rink. That Harry wanted to know if Emily Bronte was happy.

That Harry wouldn’t have touched me up in front of Kurt Russell as if I was his personal property.

But lurking beneath my thoughts and battling frantically to be heard is the reminder that his condition is critical. Harry Weiss might die too.

I slump onto the floor and hit the mute button to get the sound back on the TV. If I have to sit here all night waiting for an update, I will.

The footage has switched to images of Alessandro Russo from his latest movie. Images of him with a beautiful model on hisarm on the red carpet. Images of him as a little boy in Italy. Right at the end of the report, they produce a photograph of Harry attending an event with a stunning blond—his face is turned away from the camera, but it is unmistakably him, his friends from the rink in the background.

Why do they have to focus on their lifestyle? A man is dead, and another is seriously hurt; isn’t it enough to report the facts without having to glam it up with pictures of red carpets, movie premieres, and models?

The door opens and my mom peeps into the room. “Your food is getting cold.” Her eyes drift to the TV screen. “Such a waste of a young life. Don’t be sad, darling. It obviously wasn’t meant to be.”

I can’t even look at her. How can she be so callous? So coldhearted? So fucking calculating?

The snow is still falling heavily. Our backyard is pure white, apart from the tiny fragile claw prints of the birds that have been searching for food. I feel like I should do something, only I’m not sure what, and just looking at the snow is giving me shivers.

I know which hospital Harry is in. I could go visit him myself instead of relying on the news reporters to spice up the facts to make them a little more appetizing for the viewers. I reach the door and stop.

What if his model girlfriend is there at his bedside? How would I explain that he fell over me on the ice and now I’m invested in his well being? God, I already know what she would think, that I’m just another gold-digger after his money, now that I know he has some.

I go back to the news report which has now moved onto the blizzard.

I’ll wait here. His family will be with him, if they can get to Chicago from wherever they are. He might not even be allowed visitors, and even if he is, he probably won’t remember me.

But what if he dies from his injuries? Will I regret not making the effort to see him when he’s so close? What would my dad do?

That settles it. I sneak out of the den, grab my purse from my room, and tiptoe to the front door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m not telling my parents. My dad won’t question me wanting to visit a friend in hospital, but if my mom hears the words eligible bachelor associated with Harry, she’ll be sharpening her own talons and chaining me to his bedside.

I don’t even put my boots on inside the house. I open the door just enough for me to step outside onto the porch, hopping while I slide my feet into them and my arms into my coat, zipping it right up to my neck. Then I narrow my eyes against the bitter wind and walk towards the main road where I am able to get a cab.

The traffic is crawling.

The cab driver drops me as close to the hospital as he can get. I ignore the camera crew loitering outside the main entrance and am greeted by a blast of warm air when I step inside. The man on the front desk tells me where to find Harry when I claim to be his girlfriend, and I take the stairs slowly, wondering what on earth I’m doing here.

What if he doesn’t recognize me? What if he thinks I’m a crazy stalker trying to get my five minutes of fame because I happenedto bump into him and Alessandro Russo by chance? I shouldn’t have come. What was I thinking?

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