Nuclear Heat

by Jordyn White

  “Do you need anything else?”

  She nods sleepily and throws her arms around my neck. I give her a hug and a kiss on the lips and, ultimately, leave her to her bed alone.

  By the time I’m in my truck, I realize I haven’t heard from Sam all day. She hasn’t been feeling well the last couple days, so maybe she’s just been sleeping a lot today. Still, we pretty much always touch base with each other.

  I start the truck and head in the direction of home, but when I get to the intersection that would take me to Sam’s house, I make the turn so I can go over and check on her. I’ll just see if she needs anything. And make sure she’s not avoiding the doctor. She hates doctors almost as much as she hates heights. One time she suffered with strep throat for so long, by the time I finally figured out what was going on and hauled her ass to the doctor he said she was lucky it hadn’t turned into Rheumatic fever. That shit gets into your heart and really screws you up. I was pretty irritated about that one, because she’d been lying to me about how much pain she’d been in and about the fever she couldn’t get to go down.

  Stubborn ox.

  When I pull in front of Sam’s house, her car is parked in front of the garage and the lights are on in her bedroom. The front door is locked, but I use my key to get in. I’m quiet, in case she fell asleep with the light on. I cross the fluffy pink carpet in the darkened living room, making a mental note that we really need to get going on her renovations, and head down the hall. Her bedroom door is open and light is spilling into the hall.

  A short, high-pitched sound—a sound of pain—causes my heart to clench and my pace to quicken. “Sam?”

  I get a pain-filled gasp in answer and go through the door to find Sam lying on her side on her bed, clutching her stomach.

  I hurry to her side, taking in her strained expression, her sweat-drenched hair, her flushed skin.

  She looks at me, a desperate look of relief washing over her before she pinches her face in pain. “Jack,” she breathes.

  “What’s wrong?” I put my hand on her bare arm. She’s wearing a tank and sweatpants, and her skin is hot to the touch. “God, you’re burning up.” I put my hand to her damp forehead. Fuck, that’s scary hot.

  “My stomach,” she says through gritted teeth. All huddled up like this, my normally tough Sam looks so tiny and helpless.

  “Where does it hurt?” She’d texted that she thought maybe she had the flu, but this feels different to me. My entire body’s on alert, because something seems desperately wrong.

  “My stomach,” she says again, unhelpfully.

  “All over or just one place?” I gently lift one arm so I can feel her stomach, my mind racing through the possibilities. I check her right side first and, sure enough, when I give it just the slightest bit of pressure, she cries out.

  Crap.

  “Sorry, sweetheart.”

  I quickly check the other side, and after no reaction, I gather her into my arms and carry her back down the hall.

  She’s huddling against me, hot as an oven, but still manages to ask where we’re going. When I tell her the ER, she groans and shakes her head against my chest, but doesn’t protest more than that. She must really be hurting. I pick up the pace.

  Once we’re in the truck, my adrenaline’s pumping and it’s all I can do not to speed overly much and get us pulled over. I ask her questions I maybe should’ve asked her when we were texting this week, but she probably wouldn’t have been straight with me anyway. In between her clenching and groaning, I get the full story. She’s been dealing with nearly incapacitating pain for two full days. About an hour ago, she felt better for a bit, but then the pain came on even stronger. She’s been throwing up and having all sorts of fun symptoms. She did originally think it was the flu—up until about a day ago.

  Damn stubborn Sam.

  I’m torn between being pissed she didn’t get herself to a doctor and agonizing for her as she squirms in the seat over there. I have one hand on the wheel and the other on her back, trying to comfort her.

  I don’t say what I think’s wrong, because I’m not sure she’s in enough pain not to try to escape from my truck if she hears the word “surgery.”

  Still, there’s only one way to get an appendix out and if I’m not mistaken, that’s exactly what she’s facing.

  I park near the entrance, the parking spaces tinged red from the lettering over the wide, glass doors: EMERGENCY ROOM.

  I carry her inside, trying not to jostle her too much as I hustle up to the front desk. For all the urgency I feel and for all the pain poor Sam’s in, the next hour and thirty-three minutes feels agonizingly slow. First she’s put in a gown and a bed, and questioned by one nurse after another about her symptoms, before a physician comes in and asks the same damn questions all over again. Do these people ever actually talk to each other? All I can do is sit here while she grips my hand, and try not to pummel everyone I see. Finally they do an ultrasound, confirm an inflamed appendix, and say the inevitable word: surgery.

  Upon hearing this, Sam’s eyes go wide and she grips my hand tighter, but she doesn’t complain. I’m actually proud of what a trooper she’s being. Watching her in this much pain is making my stomach hurt. I can only imagine what she’s going through.

  They finally give her a couple IVs, one for fluids and one for her fever, and eventually come to wheel her away. I walk with her down the hallway as far as they’ll let me go. Before they take her through a wide, automatic door with a big “Restricted” sign on it, I give her hand one last squeeze and plant a kiss on her hot, damp forehead.

  She doesn’t say a word, but our eyes lock and I see the fear in her eyes. My heart clenches in sympathy. “You’ll be all right, sweetheart.”

  Her big blue eyes are soaking in my every word. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Those words are the first thing I think of when, an hour later, the physician comes into the waiting room wearing an expression that makes my blood turn to ice.

  Chapter 3

  Jack

  The girls have a running joke that I rather enjoy. They like to tease one another and argue about which one of them is my favorite.

  I’ve never said, of course.

  I love all these girls like crazy. They’re fun to tease and mess around with and give some loving to, but in a big brother way. They’re fun to talk to and hang out with. I’m not sure how we got to be the way we are together. I don’t know that any of us give it any thought. It’s just how it is. Being a guy, I’m not blind to the fact that they’re all gorgeous as fuck. I’ve had people ask me why I’ve never been with any of them, or call me a liar when I say I haven’t. I don’t know what to say to that. Yeah, they’re beautiful, each in her own way. They’re also amazing people and they occupy a special place in my heart.

  But I have to admit, Sam is different.

  It’s never quite felt right to describe my feelings for her as “sisterly.” It isn’t that I don’t feel protective of her, I do. But I don’t feel sisterly about her either. The truth is, she’s my best friend. More than the guys I hang with, even more than the other Firework Girls.

  I love them all, but Sam’s in her own category.

  Maybe that’s why, when the doctor explains that Sam’s appendix got so inflamed it had been slowly leaking toxins into her body for some time and she’s now “in danger,” something big and deep and wild inside me starts to panic.

  It’s flailing around inside my chest but I’m standing stock still. I nod automatically as he grimly talks about the difficulty of detecting this kind of leak before surgery and discusses aggressive antibiotic treatments to deal with her “complications.”

  No, no, no, no, please God, no.

  I’m strangely noticing details like the little chip in the top corner of his wire-rimmed glasses, and the wispy hair covering his receding hairline, and no, no, no.

  When he says, “40% chance” my brain shuts down.

  The wild thing inside me get
s still and dark and cold and slides down my body and into the floor.

  He ends by giving me that clinical sympathetic expression they probably teach in medical school. Seconds later I’m left in an empty surgery waiting room, watching his white coat disappear through the automatic door, and listening to my heart thump, thump, thumping in my ears.

  By the time they tell us we can go in to see her, it’s just after six o’clock the next morning and Isabella and Chloe are here as well. Ashley’s in transit—she and Erik are flying back from Chicago today—so we’re keeping her apprised of things via text. I’m staying in touch with Sam’s mom the same way. She lives in Nevada and we haven’t decided if she needs to come or not. She doesn’t have the money for a ticket, of course, but I’ll fly her out myself if it comes to that.

  Please God, don’t let it come to that.

  The doctors are now describing Sam’s condition as “critical, but stable” and are “cautiously optimistic” the antibiotics are working. I’m trying to follow the girls’ lead and focus on words like “stable” and “optimistic,” but the word “critical” is weighing in my chest and I can’t get it to leave. The doctor hasn’t given us an updated “percent chance” of recovery. I’m afraid to ask him for one.

  We’re told only two of us can go back to see her at a time, so Isabella and I go first. A petite nurse with shoes that squeak on the linoleum leads us down the broad, sterile hallway and into an ICU room packed with equipment and beeping monitors. The bed’s in the middle and Sam’s sleeping, as she’s apparently been doing since her surgery. There’s IVs attached to her right hand and a little oxygen tube hooked under her nose and behind her ears. She’s so pale and frail-looking it almost doesn’t seem like her. Except that it is her. My heart flips over and my chest starts to hurt.

  “Aww, poor thing,” Isabella whispers as I go around to the side of the bed. Sam’s left hand is lying by her side. I take it automatically. It’s tiny and warm and limp, and the sensation of holding it travels up my arm and to my chest and makes me hurt even more. I’m leaning over the bed slightly, looking at the face I know so well. I want to stroke her cheek and kiss her forehead, do something to comfort her, but we’ve been told to be careful not to wake her. I can only hover here, feeling lost and helpless.

  “Here, honey,” Isabella says quietly. She’s brought over a plastic chair from the side of the room. “Sit down.”

  I do as I’m told, but I’m still holding Sam’s hand and resting my arm on the hospital bed’s side rails, looking at her face.

  Come on, Sam. Fight this. You’ve got this.

  Isabella pulls another chair up next to me. She puts her hand on Sam’s forearm and leans against my shoulder. “She doesn’t look too bad, all things considered.”

  I don’t respond to this. She looks like hell. She looks like she’s had the shit knocked out of her.

  “She’ll be okay, Jack. She’s strong. The doctor said she’s stable.”

  Critical but stable.

  I nod to appease her.

  We sit mostly in silence, but sometimes talking quietly about the inconsequential stuff people talk about in situations like this. Just stuff to pass the time and to avoid talking about the thing that is of consequence. The entire time my heart is beating soundly. Looking at Sam’s face only makes it worse.

  But I can’t look away.

  A few hours later, we’re told Sam’s improving. They hope to move her out of the ICU sometime tomorrow. Since there’s only two, short slots for visiting hours in the ICU each day, and since we’ve all been up all night, the girls decide to go home, saying they’ll be back for evening visiting hours. Chloe tells me I should go home too, and get some rest. I say I will.

  Instead, after they leave I find the ICU nurse and persuade her to let me sit in Sam’s room. It’s most definitely against the rules, but I pull out all my best tricks to get what I want, because I can’t bear the thought of Sam being in there alone.

  Over the next several hours, I get good at sleeping while sitting in that hard plastic chair, but sleeping lightly enough that I’m still kind of keeping an eye on her. I’m careful to get out of the way every time a nurse comes in and almost get kicked out twice by people who aren’t too thrilled about my presence.

  But I manage to stay. Every time Sam opens her eyes, even if it’s only for a moment before falling back asleep, I’m there.

  By the time Sam’s been moved upstairs and out of the ICU, she’s waking up more frequently and I’m finally confident she’ll recover. I stay anyway. I accidentally stood Emily up on our date Saturday night, but she was understanding once I explained the situation. The girls and their guys have been filtering in and out of Sam’s room—Ashley’s back in town—and when they say to me “Are you still here?” I pretend I’ve been home more than I have. I’ve gone home long enough to clean up and sleep for a couple of hours, but that’s all.

  I’m not sure why.

  Even though I know Sam’s out of danger and will be okay, something’s still stirred up inside me. I can’t relax. I can’t leave her.

  It’s late afternoon now, two days after she was first admitted to the ER. Her color is starting to come back, and this time when she wakes up, she turns her head and focuses on me. For the first time, she seems to really see me. I take this improved awareness as a good sign.

  I’m right by the bed, of course, but lean in a little more anyway, giving her a smile. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey.” Her voice is dry.

  “Want some water?” A few hours ago, the nurse brought in one of those huge plastic mugs with a handle, a straw, and markings on the side measuring off CCs. It was full of ice water at the time—the ice has since melted—and Sam was still sleeping as much as ever, so it seemed kind of pointless.

  Sam weakly nods her head in answer, though, so I’m glad to have it now. After I give her a few sips, I settle back in the chair. I take her hand without thinking. She gives me a weak squeeze before relaxing her hand again. That makes the weird, pinched feeling I’ve had in my chest feel even more constricted.

  “What happened?” she asks.

  I fill her in, but downplay the whole I-was-scared-to-fucking-death-you-were-going-to-die-and-leave-me part. I downplay just how serious things got, in general. I do tell her she’s been on a heavy-duty treatment of antibiotics and has a few more days to go.

  “You’ll be okay. The nurses say you’re one tough cookie. Little do they know this was all just one big scheme to avoid ripping out that wall.”

  She gives me a weak grin. There’s a little light in her eyes.

  “Gotcha,” she says, her voice still gravelly.

  I squeeze her hand. “More water?”

  She shakes her head no.

  “Just a little?”

  “Okay. Bossy.”

  She takes a little more this time, and the part of me that’s been cataloguing every change makes another note in the “improving” column.

  We talk a bit more and the nurse comes in to do her thing and I text updates to everyone. After about half an hour of this, Sam looks worn and sleepy again. Still, it’s the longest she’s been awake yet, and the first time she’s really been present. Before I know it, I’m holding her hand and looking at her sleeping face.

  When I first saw Sam in this hospital bed a couple days ago, I’d wanted to stroke her cheeks and kiss her forehead. She was so frail and sick. I wanted to comfort her. Now she’s starting to get her color back along with a little bit of her orneriness—a good sign—but I still have that pinched, panicked feeling. I don’t know why it won’t go away.

  Now, as I look at her, that feeling starts to take on a life of its own.

  Something warm is blooming in my heart. Meanwhile a strange, queasy sort of feeling grips my stomach. I don’t just want to pet her cheek and kiss her on the forehead. I want to pull her into my arms and cradle her head against my chest. I want to climb right into this bed and hold her against me, feeling her body against mine from
head to toe. I want to kiss her on the forehead, and on her cheeks, and on her lips.

  My heart is pounding. That warm feeling is flooding my chest, my arms, my face.

  As I realize how badly I want to hold her and kiss her again and again, I feel the entire world flip over.

  Oh, god.

  Sam.

  Is this for real? Is this what I think it is?

  I look down at her hand in mine. I want to kiss that too, press my lips against her palm until I make her mine.

  I look back at Sam’s face and see her like I’ve never seen her before. My breath catches. My heartbeat is resonating in my body. Her presence washes over me and envelopes me.

  Holy lord.

  This little voice inside my brain is thinking, But, but, but... we’re friends. Just friends.

  We may have been friends for a long, long time, but these feelings I’m having are brand fucking new.

  At that moment Ashley comes in, giving me a quick smile before looking at Sam. “Oh, she looks so much better.” She deposits her purse on the counter, flips her long braid behind her, and comes over to sit beside me. “Don’t you think?”

  I’m barely breathing. Ashley’s looking at Sam, but I’m looking at Ashley. Maybe my brain is just playing tricks on me. I’m tired from practically no sleep and exhausted from being so freaked out about losing my best friend.

  Friend.

  So I try it on Ashley. I try to see her the way a man might see her, a man who hasn’t looked at her for years like a sister. But as I continue to stare at her, all I manage to do is draw her attention and make her give me a quizzical look. My heart draws a blank.

  I try to imagine kissing her and can’t do it. It’s kind of freaking me out, actually.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  My voice sounds funny. I look back to Sam and it all hits me again. Bam.