Page 80 of Just Friends

He dropped the clipboard to his side and stared at her. “Chicago? What about the cop fella?”

“That’s over…” Rebecca glanced away.

“What a shame. He was over the moon for you.”

“Well, I really screwed things up.”

“You?” Morgan slid an arm around her shoulders. “My dear, whatever happened, if you still want that young man, just tell him you’re sorry.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

Morgan smiled. “There was an ease between you, like being next to one another was the most natural thing in the world. Not that it’s any of my business.”

The phone vibrated in her back pocket, and she pulled it out. Weasel’s name displayed on the caller ID. “Speak of the Devil,” she said to Morgan who nodded and stepped into the walk-in fridge. “Hey,” she answered, “I’m so glad you called…”

“Rebecca,” came a male voice, familiar, but not Weasel.

“Dalton? Why?”

“Weasel’s been shot.”

“Oh my god, no.” Rebecca stumbled backward and bumped into the kitchen island. No. No. No.

“We’re at St. Raphael’s. He’s in surgery.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Second floor, surgery waiting room,” he replied.”

Rebecca didn’t remember driving to the hospital, parking the car, or the elevator ride to the second floor. She pushed through the door labeled Surgical Waiting Room and spotted Dalton, Cindy, and some otherfamiliar faces—other cops that were all seated in a row. Dalton and Cindy stood as Rebecca walked straight to them tears already welling up.

“What happened?” she asked as Cindy reached out and hugged her.

“Someone shot him in the chest at a convenience store.” The last thing she said to him was horrible, and now she could lose him. He’d die thinking she didn’t love him. Holy crap, she loved him—the revelation washed over her. Her lungs wouldn’t expand.

“Hey, he’s in surgery…it’s not that bad,” Dalton said pulling her into a hug.

“How is it not that bad?” she asked.

“The bullet hit him in the lung on the right side,” a voice said behind her. Rebecca turned to find a guy in Sheriff’s deputy uniform. “There are worse shots to take. It missed the heart, and I was on the scene in under a minute. Anderson walked in on a robbery in progress, and the suspect shot him the second he walked through the door. Anderson was able to return fire and kill the suspect before collapsing.”

“The surgeon will get him all fixed,” Dalton added. Rebecca needed to sit. Her vision swam. Dalton took her arm and led her to a seat; he perched on one side and the Sheriff on the other. Rebecca tried to wrap her brain around all that had transpired.

“I know you’re still reeling from your dad’s loss, but this ain’t going the same way. Besides, that boy is too ornery to die,” Dalton said.

“That’s the truth,” said the Sheriff. “He’ll outlive us all. The crazy ones usually do.” He looked over at Rebecca. “I’m Ty, by the way.”

“Rebecca,” she replied.

Ty snorted. “Oh, I know…” Paused seeming to consider what he said, “Anderson and I have been friends for years.” Ty offered an explanation. The place fell silent except for the low volume of the television tuned on an afternoon talk show. Weasel had talked about her. Did any of them know she’d left him? Would Dalton have called her if he’d known?Doubt it.

They sat around the waiting room, a clean, square room lined with rows of chairs. The afternoon stretched on without a word from anyone wearing scrubs. Daltonreturned to sit next to his wife and left Rebecca next to Ty who scrolled on his phone. She couldn’t concentrate on anything long enough to read or watch. The shapes and colors moved across the television, but she couldn’t make sense of what was on. Others arrived and went, they made coffee and used the vending machines, spoke on cell phones, and mingled about, expecting news from their loved one’s surgery. She began to pray—something she hadn’t done in a while. Rebecca begged for Weasel to completely recover, whether or not he took her back. If he didn’t, she’d find a way to be okay with it. All she wanted was for him to make it through.

Twenty-Nine

An auburn-haired young guy with a gun and badge on his belt, similar to Weasel’s, came in the waiting room. Nick, was the name. He’d been at the funeral. Nick crossed the room with the same confident stride Weasel had.

“Anything?” he asked Dalton.

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