Page 120 of Hate You, Maybe
“Hey, hey, hey,” I murmur, gently pulling her into my lap. “You’re all right. You’re all right. You’re all right.” I repeat this like a mantra, over and over, cradling her head as I rock her.
She’s bleeding from a shallow wound at her temple, so without thinking, I press my lips there. The same spot I’ve kissed before. First for show. Then for real.
Now it’s to prove she’s alive.
“Sayla.” I whisper her name, again and again, like a prayer.She shifts in my arms, just slightly, and a soft groan comes from her. “Say something.” My voice cracks, and I brush wet hair from her face. “Talk to me,” I beg. “Come on. Open your eyes. Look at me. Please.”
Her lids flutter, and she pushes her hands up to her chest, groping, like she’s searching for something. She digs inside her half-zipped sweatshirt, and a strip of faded blue satin appears. Then she pulls the rest of the bear free. My sister’s bear.
I stare at Clarence for a long moment, and something twists in my chest. Love and fear and relief and pain knotting together like Sayla’s feelings soup.
She risked herself for this.
Forme.
And if things continue between us, today won’t be the last time she puts us through moments like this. I’d be opening myself up to a lifetime of potential loss. For love. I’m not sure I can take that again. I’m also not sure I have a choice.
A ragged groan rumbles in the back of my throat.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she chokes. “I just wanted?—”
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re okay.” She blinks up at me as I tuck the bear back inside her sweatshirt, scoop her up, and stagger to my feet.
I expect her to weigh more, sodden as she is, but the emotions rising in me prove to be bigger than her limp body. And as I trudge back the way we came, I know my whisper will be lost in the storm. Still, I say it anyway. Because it’s the only thing I can promise.
“You’re safe now,” I tell her. “I’ve got you, Sayla.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sayla
The good news: Both the doctor and my nurses at the ER determined I’m going to be all right. Their scans showed no sign of concussion or brain injury, or anything else dangerous. All I needed was someone qualified to stitch up the gash at my temple. I resisted going to the hospital at first, but Dex insisted on an ambulance. And I had been unconscious for at least a little while. So for the sake of his frazzled soul—trust me, the man was frazzled—I let him call.
I’m glad I did, too, because if we’d just slapped a butterfly bandage from Dexter’s first aid kit on my wound like I suggested, I probably would’ve ended up with quite the scar on my forehead.
The better news: As it turns out, the theater was the only building severely damaged during the storm, so a cleanup and hazard crew roped off the area for safety, and school’s already back in session. Gordon hadn’t told Dex and me about the trees coming down there because he was afraid I’d leave theweight room. Which I did anyway. For the time being, the theater’s uninhabitable, but I’ve already been brainstorming alternatives for our fall play.
A Midsummer Night’s Dreammust go on, after all.
Hopefully, in the short term, we can find some other place to rehearse on campus—like the band room or the gym. Then maybe, for the performances, we’ll get permission to use the auditorium at city hall. Either way, we can’t improvise forever, and the theater is unusable. So the FRIG will almost certainly be diverted to the performing arts department now.
To be clear, the switch in funding isn’tofficiallyofficial yet, but Mr. Wilford assured me the theater will be completely renovated. He got in touch with me less than two hours after I was injured. I think Gordon let him know I got hurt. Either way, the news traveled fast, because I was still at the hospital when he called.
Shortly after talking to Mr. Wilford, I also heard from Dr. Dewey. She wanted to be sure I was all right, too. And she reiterated what Mr. Wilford suggested: That we’ll be getting a new theater after all.
Now, I’m not a lawyer, but I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody told herandMr. Wilford that encouraging Dex and me to be on school premises over a weekend during inclement weather wasn’t such a hot idea. Especially since all we were doing was making copies of the SACSS report for the faculty. A report that’s already sitting in everybody’s inbox.
Either way, here’s where the bad news kicks in: There’s still only one grant. Which means the athletic department won’t be able to fund the gym renovation after all. A month ago, I would’ve told you I’d sell my pinkie toe to win that money over Dex. Both pinkie toes, probably. It’s not like I’m a runner. But sitting in the ER waiting to get my forehead stitched up, I was crushed for him. Even more crushed than I was happy for me.
Which was weird.
In other bad news, I have no idea if Dex is upset about the FRIG, or upset that I risked myself to get his bear—or both, or neither—because once he knew my head wasn’t going to explode, he delivered me safely home to Loren, then he bolted. Now it’s Sunday night. Twenty-four hours later. And I still haven’t heard from him.
Of course, there is a third potential reason why he left here yesterday in a big hurry, and why he’s been giving Loren and me space ever since. And that reason has to do with the worst news of all, which is that Loren and Foster broke up.
She was waiting for me in the front room when Dex dropped me off, just one sad, red-headed ball of snot and tears. Absolutely shattered. She was sobbing so hard, understanding what happened to her took me a while. But eventually I got there. In the world’s most terrible case of bad timing, Foster Abel told Loren Cane he didn’t love her enough to go through with the wedding. And he delivered this blow just as the thunderstorm rolled in.
Loren was at her dad’s house, making sure he was okay—which is pretty much how she spends her life—and Foster picked that moment to show up and get this big confession off his chest.
