Page 84 of We Were Something
“Hello?”
“Paige? Hi, baby, this is Carrie, Logan’s assistant.”
“Hi Carrie, I’m so sorry to bother you so late on a weekend, but I can’t get a hold of him and I’m just worried that—”
“He’s on a plane right now,” she says, interrupting me.
I blink. “What?”
“He got a message early this afternoon. His mom was in a car accident and was taken to the hospital. He’s on his way up to Seattle.”
“Oh my god!”
“I can give you the number for Nancy’s house if you want to try to call him there, but my guess is Logan will most likely be at the hospital. Apparently it was pretty bad.”
My hand comes to my chest, my fear for Logan and his mother suddenly constricting tightly around my chest.
Just a few hours ago, the two of us were making romantic plans and being stupid gooey messes, and now he’s sitting in a hospital somewhere, probably all alone.
This is what I was thinking about earlier—about the fact that relationships can’t just be all fun. It’s also hard days. Painful days, days that are filled with nothing but loss and grief.
Suddenly, the only thing I can imagine in this moment is getting to Logan. Being there to support him so he doesn’t have to face whatever this is all alone. So he has someone to hold his hand on what is probably a very hard day.
So I ask Carrie the only thing I can think of in a moment like this.
“What hospital?”
The next eight hours fly by in a rush. Because it’s so late, my only options for travel are to find a way to wake my friend Otto and get him to let me use his dad’s company jet, or wait until the following day when the early morning flights begin taking off.
Ultimately, I decide to wait until the morning, figuring Mr. Sinclair wouldn’t appreciate the late-night call.
I don’t sleep a wink, have no idea what I put into the bag I pack, and take a car to the airport. The entire process makes me feel like some sort of maniacal zombie, barely aware of what’s going on but filled with nervous energy that continues to push me forward.
Thankfully the flight to Seattle is smooth, and when I land, I tell the first cab driver I can find to take me to Harborview Medical Center. Of course, it’s pouring, and we hit not only rush hour but also a big chunk of construction, so it takes what feels likeforeverto get there.
Then when Idofinally get there, I still can’t get in touch with Logan, so I have no idea where to go.
“Nancy Becker,” I say to the woman at the information desk. “She was in a car accident and I don’t know where she is.”
The woman types around on her computer for a few seconds before looking up at me. “She’s in the ICU. You won’t be able to see her, but if you head up there, someone will be able to give you more information.” Then she rattles off directions for where to go.
I blaze through the hospital, frustrated when the ICU signage isn’t clear enough to get me there with any kind of expediency. Eventually I have to stop at another desk and ask for directions again, my mind feeling like a jumble as I try to focus on the information the nurse gives me.
Eventually, I make it to the ICU waiting room, but nobody is at the desk. I wait for several minutes before I start looking down hallways, trying to spot somebody who can help me.
The sound of automatic doors opening has me looking over my shoulder. And there, down at the end of a long hallway, wearing the same clothes he had on after he dropped me off yesterday morning, is Logan.
He’s slumped over with his arms braced on his knees, his head in his hand. I might have only known him for a short while, but it feels like I’d know that familiar profile anywhere.
“Ma’am, can I help you?”
Instead of responding to the nurse who has finally returned to the desk, I turn and walk briskly toward the now closing automatic doors.
“Excuse me, you can’t go in there.”
I ignore her and keep moving, barely slipping through before they close then jogging down the hallway toward where Logan sits.
At the sound of my footsteps slapping against the linoleum, his head turns, his eyes widening when he sees me. But he doesn’t rise at my approach.
