Page 50 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
After the sound tunnel of the city sidewalk, the back of the ambulance is quiet. The two paramedics talk to each other in low voices, hooking Miller up to an IV and stabilizing his left arm. One of them touches his neck and he cries out, the sound of it likea knife down the full length of my spine. When they start to cut off his shirt he turns away from me, jaw angled so I can see the pulse under his skin.
It feels impossible that Miller is only human. That I could lose him one day. That maybe, here in the back of this ambulance in a city so far from our home, I already have.
Before I realize I’m doing it I’ve reached for him, smoothed my hand over his forehead and into his hair. His skin is fever-hot. Miller turns his chin, his eyes finding mine. He looks surprised, his pupils black and blown out, and then we hit a pothole and he winces, eyes pressing shut. For the rest of the ride to the hospital, he leaves them closed.
His collarbone is broken, and his left arm in two different places. He goes into surgery at nine o’clock, by which point Willow is on the way to the airport for her flight to New York. My dad, when I call him, has no idea what’s happened. “Great job, honey!” he says when he picks up. “You two looked like naturals up there. I recorded the whole thing.”
Jazz and Felix go to the hospital café to get coffee and handle the press. Someone leaks my number, and I get call after call from New York area codes. I don’t pick up. I just wait in Miller’s hospital room, staring dry-eyed out the window, while they put pins in his bones.
I watch lights blinking across the city and tell myself that no one meant to hurt us. That none of the people who followed that girl onto the sidewalk did it with the intention of doing what theydid. That they were just angry. That they just had something to say. That there were just, in the end, too many of them.
Still, I’m scared. Still, I think of Vera.As you walk this road without me.
When they bring Miller back he’s groggy and sling-wrapped, his arm and shoulder padded against his body like he’s been cushioned for a long journey. Someone’s cleaned the blood off his face.
“Ro,” he says, his voice hoarse, when I sit in the chair beside his bed. For the next hour he disappears and reappears, slowly rejoining the world. I don’t text Felix or Jazz. I keep him for myself.
It’s past midnight when he reaches for me with his good hand. My eyes are half-closed, my head leaned onto my fist against his mattress. My sleeves are pushed up and he skims his fingers over my scar, says, “My turn.” Then he falls back asleep, and sleeps through the night.
29
I’ve been awake for hours when Miller’s eyes open for real. Felix sleeps on a couch at the end of the hallway, and Jazz is at a café down the street for better Wi-Fi and stronger coffee. It’s almost seven thirty, weak winter light painting the room pale yellow.
His eyes open slowly, like they’re testing the room:Do I want to be conscious here, or not?His irises are startling blue in the light from the window. He winces into it, and I get up to draw the shades.
“Such service,” Miller says. His voice sounds like it’s been dragged up a rock face.
I sit next to him. “How are you feeling?”
“All right.” He’s on IV pain meds, but still, he winces as he shifts toward me. “How are you feeling?”
My throat closes up, and he waits for me to swallow down the tightness, to find my words through it.
“Do you remember when we were fifteen?” I say. On the bedin front of me, Miller stiffens. “I asked you to come with me to a party.”
“Ro,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to do this.”
“We do,” I tell him. The last week has left me with so many more questions than answers but of this one thing, I am absolutely certain. “I need to say this.”
His eyes move over mine, and finally, slowly, he nods. “Okay.”
“I had a crush on this guy,” I say straight down to my hands. They’re folded together on Miller’s mattress, inches from his body. “It ate me alive and spit me out a different person who wasn’t thoughtful, or kind, or fun to be around.” I draw a steadying breath, squeezing my palms together. “When he invited me to this party, I thought it was my chance to, like. Level up, or something. I was an idiot.”
“You were fifteen,” Miller interrupts, and I hold up my hand. If I can’t get this out in one shot, I’m not going to get it out at all.
“I asked you to come with me because I was scared to go alone.” I look at him. “Because we did everything together. It never even occurredto me to go without you.”
Miller blinks, and I keep going. “It’s hard for me to even, um. Think directly about what happened after that.” I shake my head, looking away from him as my voice thins out. “I was so horrible to you. I’ve had to bury that memory so deep because it’s my least favorite thing about myself. I was awful, Miller.” I look up. “I hate that I did that, and it’s unforgivable that I did it to you, the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m so sorry.” I draw a breath, and it shudders between my ribs. “And after yesterday, seeing you like that—”
Miller holds my eyes. He looks pale, and weak, and tired. That’s my fault, too.
“I was so scared.” It hangs there between us—finally, the truth. “And I need you to know how sorry I am. I should have kept calling, after it happened. I’d do anything to un-fuck this up.”
“Ro,” he says. His voice is soft and sorry. “It’s not unforgivable. We were just kids. It’s okay.”
He can’t mean it; it can’t be so simple as all that or he’d never have stopped talking to me. But he says it anyway, a kindness I’ve done nothing to deserve.
“And besides”—the shadow of a smile tugs at his split lips—“I could have called you back.”
