Page 54 of Roommating

“I’m not a fan of unplanned pop-ins at work.”

“Was it important?”

“She said she was in the neighborhood and remembered I worked there.” He tucks his hands in the pockets of his beige bomber jacket.

“Aha. The old ‘in the neighborhood’ line. Your girlfriend isn’t the most creative at the writers’ table.” I hold my breath. I have no business being thirsty since our agreement to keep things platonic between us was mutual—at least outwardly.

“She’s not my girlfriend.” He looks at me and quickly away.

“None of my business.” We keep walking. She’s not his girlfriend. I smile, and though I can’t bring myself to look at him, I feel him smiling too.

The air is charged when we arrive at our building and ride the elevator to our floor, like we’re on the precipice of something. It’s an effort to remind myself we both agreed to keep things platonic. I can no longer remember why we did that.

The elevator doors open, and the sound of Rocket’s barking fills the air. It’s not his regular excited bark. It’s higher-pitched and sounds frantic. We race down the hall and Adam opens the door, calling out, “We’re home! Grams?”

Rocket darts out of the kitchen, into the living room, and back so quickly, I’d think I imagined it if he weren’t barking so fast and furious.

We glance at each other and follow Rocket.

Marcia’s on the floor, holding her chest. “Call 911,” she gasps.

Chapter Twenty-Four

My head whips toward the swinging doors again.Please be Marcia’s doctor coming to update us. Better yet, please be Marcia herself, no worse for wear and ready to go home.

I release my breath. It’s not Marcia or her doctor. It’s the same energetic intern with the Jessica Day bangs and braid bopping down her back who’s been in and out of the waiting room multiple times over the last hour. I’m not actually sure she’s an intern. She might be a resident or an attending. After more than a decade watchingGrey’s Anatomy, I still don’t know the difference.

I rub a small circle over my roiling stomach. The hospital smell doesn’t help. It’s a combination of sick people and antiseptic meant to disguise the smell of sick people, like hospital-scented Febreze.

I bounce at the sensation of Adam’s hand on my knee.

“You’re fidgeting.”

I slump in my leather chair. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just stop.” He smiles wryly.

I appreciate his attempt at humor when I know he’s as terrified as me. His hair is standing up on top from pulling on it and he has the purple half-moons under his eyes of a person who hasn’t slept in days, even though it’s only been about two hours since Marcia’s incident.

When we found her on the kitchen floor, she said she was lightheaded, her chest was tight, and she was having trouble breathing. But her words came out jumbled. While waiting for the ambulance, all I could do was hold her hand and pray she wasn’t having a stroke.

I dig my fingernails into my palms to keep myself alert and focus my attention onTheReal Housewives of Potomacplaying out on one of the many flat screens affixed to the walls of the ER waiting room. It’s not a show in my rotation, but its mindless cattiness and vanity are more welcome than MSNBC or CNN, which are broadcast on the other televisions. With my own personal village in turmoil, I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle the politics of the world at large right now.

“Should you let your dad know what’s happening?” I ask Adam, even while my eyes drift between the TV and the doors.Any second now.

“I already did.”

“Good.” It occurs to me I might have to meet the man who shunned wonderful Marcia, his own mother, because of her sexual preferences, and kept her from her only grandchild.

“Jeffrey said, ‘Keep me posted.’”

I mutter “dick” under my breath before I can stop myself.

Next to me, Adam laughs. “Agreed.”

Deciding a watched door doesn’t open, I angle my body to face Adam and try to read his thoughts. If I’m scared… and make no mistake, my fear threatens to drown me… how must he feel? My vocal cords ache to assure him Marcia will be okay, but I don’t know if this is true—it was a stroke that killed Nana—and lying won’t help anyone.

“I’m not with Ashley.”

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