Page 17 of Hate the One You're With
I can’t just walk away from it because I can’t afford college, can I? But the idea of getting married—at eighteen, for fuck’s sake—is daunting.
I step out of the car, giving Logan a quick wave as hedrives off. The Boston air is crisp, carrying the scent of fresh coffee and the distant hum of city life. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me and start walking toward the hospital entrance. There’s something about the atmosphere here that makes me feel a little out of place, even lost.
As I walk through the sliding doors, I reach for my phone to check in with Clarissa, but she’s not answering. I quickly text her,Where are you?and try calling again, only to be met with her voicemail. Great. I stand there for a moment, feeling a bit lost. I’ve been to Boston before, but this hospital feels like a maze, with corridors and signs that seem to lead everywhere but where I need to go.
Where do I need to go? Cardiology? Intensive care? The thought of that last one makes my heart clench, bringing back memories of Mom. That’s where she spent the last days of her life. She was in a coma, and we were all holding onto the hope that she’d wake up, but the doctors said her brain was too damaged to recover. My grandparents made the decision to disconnect her, and I didn’t get a say. I wasn’t ready for her to go, but nevertheless, I had to say goodbye.
A heavy sadness washes over me, and I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together. Tears threaten to spill over, but I quickly blink them back, straightening my posture. Falling apart in the middle of a hospital isn’t an option. It’s not very Langley of me, as Grandma would say.
I scan the area, hoping to spot a familiar face or at least a helpful sign, but no such luck. I’m about to give up and try calling Clarissa again when a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Hey, you look a little lost. Need some help?”
I turn to find a guy standing a few feet away, a friendlysmile on his face. He’s tall, with messy dark blond hair and a relaxed demeanor that instantly puts me at ease. There’s something about him—maybe it’s the way his blue eyes crinkle with a hint of mischief, or the casual way he’s holding his soda—that makes me think of summer afternoons and lazy beach days. It’s like he’s the embodiment of comfort and lighthearted fun, and suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost.
“Oh, um, yeah,” I stammer, suddenly very aware of how disheveled I must look. “I’m trying to find my friend. Her dad had surgery today, but I can’t get a hold of her to figure out where I’m supposed to go.”
He nods, like this sort of thing happens to him all the time and he’s probably an expert at navigating hospitals. “No worries, I’m sure we can find your friend. Do you know what kind of surgery he had?”
“Heart surgery, which makes me think he might be in cardiology, but . . .” I shrug, feeling a bit useless.
“You’re in luck. I’m headed that way myself,” he says, his smile widening. “Come on, I’ll show you. Just let me finish my drink. It’s the only thing keeping me awake right now.”
“Long day?” I ask.
“Try long week—probably month,” he replies with a weary grin.
“Sorry, is there something I can help you with?” I offer, feeling a bit more at ease.
He shakes his head. “I mean, you could join me for lunch. I haven’t eaten since . . . I can’t even remember. Probably last night.”
“Let’s do that. But you should be taking care of yourself,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about. “Whena loved one is in the hospital, you need to look after yourself too. They need you to be strong.”
“Talking from experience?” he asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“Some,” I respond casually.
“But they’re all good now, right?” he asks, his tone more concerned.
I nod, even though I doubt he needs to know that in my experience, when someone lands in the hospital, they never leave. It happened to Mom and then to Grandpa. “You just have to have faith.”
“I do,” he says, trying to sound reassuring.
I fall into step beside him as we walk, hoping we’re headed to the cafeteria and not somewhere more sinister. Okay, I really need to stop reading my grandfather’s thrillers. They might be comforting, but they’re making my imagination run a little wild.
“So, who are you visiting?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from my own thoughts.
“My dad,” he says, worry tightening his voice.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I offer, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
He nods. “Yeah, he’s in recovery and will have to spend a couple of weeks here, then PT and rehab . . . that’s what worries me.”
He shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear about some stranger’s problems.”
“I’m good at listening,” I say, extending my hand with a smile. “Emmersyn Langley. See, now we’re not strangersanymore.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he repeats my name. “Oh, you’re Emmersyn?” He says it like he just bit into something unexpectedly sour, surprise and something close to distaste in his tone.
