A Story Like Ours

by Robin Huber

  I splash some water on my face and look in the mirror.

  Joe’s dying and Lucy’s in surgery. How the fuck did this happen?

  * * *

  “Sam, Lucy’s out of surgery,” Sebastian says, rounding the corner of the snack room, where I’m getting my third cup of coffee. “The doctor wants to talk to you.”

  I leave the cup and rush back into the waiting area, where I’m greeted by a doctor in green scrubs.

  “Mr. Cole?”

  “Yes,” I say over the emotional wave pool sloshing around inside me.

  “Lucy’s out of surgery and she’s doing great. She’s still a little groggy, but she’s awake and she’s asking for you.” He smiles contently.

  I exhale a relieved breath. “Is she okay?”

  “She has two shiny new screws in her hip and she’ll need to stay off her feet for a while, but otherwise, yes. She’s doing fine.”

  “Can I see her now?”

  “Yes, come with me.”

  I put my hand on Sebastian’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “Okay. I’ll just be in the waiting room with Paul,” he says, and I give him an appreciative nod.

  “Right this way, Mr. Cole.”

  “You can call me Sam.”

  “Okay, Sam. Just around this corner.”

  I follow him into the room and see Lucy lying in a hospital bed connected to an IV and several monitors. One must be a fetal monitor, because I can hear the rapid swooshing of the baby’s heartbeat, just like at our checkups.

  She gives me a weak smile when she sees me and inhales a shallow breath. “Hi.”

  I drop my head and fight hard against the tears that rush to my eyes, but when I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her small hand, I fall apart. I lean over her, hugging her through the sheets and blankets draped over her.

  “Careful,” she croaks, and I sit up.

  I stare into her pale blue eyes, unable to ignore the scrapes on her cheek and neck. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

  “I’m okay,” she says quietly.

  I reach for her hand again, unsure if I’ll ever be able to let go. “I thought—I didn’t know if—”

  “I know,” she says, squeezing my hand weakly.

  “What would I do if something happened to you?”

  “I’m okay,” she whispers, and smiles softly.

  “Are you in a lot of pain?” I ask, scanning her.

  “A little. The medicine’s helping.”

  “Is it okay for the baby?”

  She smiles and nods. “You hear that?” She looks over at one of the monitors.

  “She’s got a strong heart. Just like her mom,” I say, squeezing her hand.

  She gazes at me with a puzzled look on her face. “She?”

  I smile softly and pull her hand to my mouth. “It’s a girl.”

  “What?” She smiles and a tear falls from the corner of her eye.

  “I wanted to be the one to tell you,” I say, brushing her hair off her face.

  “Sebastian will be so happy.”

  “He is.”

  “Sebastian’s here?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the waiting room with Paul. Miles is here too. But he’s updating Tristan right now.”

  Her smile disappears and worry falls over her face. “About what?”

  I close my eyes and shake my head, unsure what to tell her.

  “It’s Joe, isn’t it?” she whispers, and tears fill her eyes.

  I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “It’s not good. He has internal injuries. They don’t know if he’s going to make it out of surgery.” I choke on a sob that fights its way out.

  “What?” She starts to cry and her heart rate goes up on one of the monitors.

  I drop my face to hers. “Shhh…shhh…” I hold her face in my hand and whisper, “It’s going to be okay, Lamb. He’ll be okay.”

  * * *

  “Sam,” Miles whispers, shaking my shoulder.

  I look up at him from the chair I fell asleep in next to Lucy’s bed. “What is it?” I whisper, trying not to wake her.

  “You gotta come with me.” He waves me out of the room after him. “Come on.”

  I get up and follow him out into the hall.

  “Sam, I’m Dr. Bernard,” a doctor I haven’t met says, greeting me outside Lucy’s room.

  Miles stands next to him with his arms folded, looking down at the floor.

  “Hi,” I say tentatively.

  “I was Joe’s surgeon tonight.”

  “Oh.” My eyes and ears perk up. “Is he okay? How is he?”

  Miles looks at me with red-rimmed eyes and I try to convince myself that it’s because it’s so late.

  “Sam, some colleagues of mine were hoping to speak to you about Joe’s condition. Do you mind coming with me?” he asks, gesturing down the hall.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  He leads us down the hall into a small windowless room, where I’m greeted by a team of doctors who promptly get up from the table they’re seated around.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, eyeing Joe’s doctor.

  “Sam, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but…Joe didn’t make it.”

  My heart pounds inside my chest and the blood pulses behind the cut over my eye. I blink at him for several seconds, vaguely aware of Miles’s hand on my shoulder.

  “He asked that his heart go to Tristan Kelley,” one of the other doctors says, and I look up at him, confused. “He’s being prepped for surgery now.”

  “Joe’s dead?” I ask, working hard for each breath.

  “I’m so sorry, Sam,” Miles says, but he might as well be in another room.

  “Where’s Tristan?”

  “He’s being prepped for surgery,” the doctor says again.

  “Tris is gonna get Joe’s heart,” Miles says, unable to hide the emotion in his gravelly voice.

  “Joe found out that he was a match a few years ago,” one of the doctors says. “He designated himself as a donor for Tristan. It’s in his medical records.”

  “He did that?”

  The doctor gives me a small smile and nods.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Joe’s fifty-five.”

  “Well he must have taken good care of himself, because he had the heart of a young man,” another doctor chimes in.

  “He ran six miles nearly every day.” I close my eyes and say quietly, “He was running for Tristan.”

  “Tristan’s very lucky.”

  “Lucky? The closest person he’s ever had to a father just died. You call that lucky?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Upset? Why would I be upset? Joe had to die for Tristan to live. That’s fair, right?”

  “Sam, come on, let’s take a walk.” Miles says, reaching for my shoulder.

  “I don’t want to take a fucking walk, Miles.” I blink back tears. “I want to see Tristan. Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not possible. You’ll have to wait until he’s in recovery,” one of the doctors says. “We have to act swiftly in these situations. Time is of the essence.”

  I sniff and nod. “How long is the surgery?”

  “Around four hours. Then he’ll be moved to the ICU, where he’ll stay for several days.”

  “He’s not out of the woods yet, Sam,” Joe’s doctor says. “He’s going to need all the friends he’s got.”

  Miles pats me on the back. “Why don’t you go be with Lucy. I’ll let you know when he’s out of surgery.”

  I look at Miles, whose face is worn and weary from the night. “Yeah, okay.”

  He gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Thanks, Miles.”

  “Anytime, champ.”

  Chapter 13

  Lucy, Three Weeks Later

  I wake in the dark to Sam sitting down on the bed and jostling me a little, which causes my hip to throb.
I groan, and Sam stands up.

  “You okay?” he asks, walking around to my side of the bed.

  I look up at his silhouette in the dark and I’m reminded of nights when he would come into my room to comfort me when we were living in foster care together. “Yeah, I’m okay.” I look at the alarm clock on the night stand. It’s two a.m. “What are you doing?” I ask, seeing him a little more clearly in the dim light that’s coming from the bathroom. He’s wearing workout clothes and his shirt is soaked with sweat.

  “I was just letting off some steam in the gym.”

  “Sam, it’s the middle of the night.”

  “I know.”

  I slowly sit up, grimacing at the dull pain that shoots down my leg when I move.

  “Careful,” he says, putting his hands on my back to help me. “Lucy, you should go back to sleep.”

  “No.” I shake my head, which has been filled with worry since the accident. “Not until you tell me why you were working out in the middle of the night.”

  “I wasn’t working out. I was just hitting the speed bag.”

  “Okay, well…why were you hitting the speed bag in the middle of the night?” I ask carefully, because I already know the answer.

  “Lucy, come on, do we have to do this right now?”

  “Joe?” I push, because he’s barely spoken his name since the funeral.

  His jaw clenches tight, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Sam.” I ignore the little voice in my head telling me to leave it alone and say, “I think you should talk to somebody.”

  “What, like a shrink?”

  “A therapist, yes. Someone who deals in loss and grief. It’s not healthy for you to keep it all pent up inside.”

  “I’m not keeping it pent up,” he says, pulling his sweaty shirt off and throwing it in the hamper.

  “Taking your emotions out on a punching bag is not the same thing as talking about it with someone.”

  “Lucy, I’m not going to talk to a stranger about Joe,” he says firmly, “so stop pushing me on it, okay?”

  I press my lips together and bob my head. “Well, then…maybe you could just talk about it with me?”

  He sits down on the bed at my feet, drops his elbows to his knees, and pulls his hands to his chin. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lucy. Not with anybody,” he says, looking at me.

  I blink back tears and swallow down the hurt. “Well, maybe you don’t, but I do.”

  He drops his hands between his knees and huffs. “What do you want to talk about? Huh? That I lost the closest person I had to a father? That Joe died because of the fucking paparazzi? Or that the only reason the paparazzi was even there is because of me?”

  I shake my head and swallow the hard lump in my throat. “Sam? You think this was your fault somehow?”

  He stares at me, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “What happened to Joe is not your fault, Sam.”

  He wipes his watery eyes and says, “Lucy, if it wasn’t for me, none of this would have happened. Joe would still be here and you”—he drops his head to his hand and rubs his tortured face—“you wouldn’t be lying in this bed with a metal pin your hip.”

  I want to comfort him, but I can’t reach him where he’s sitting. “Sam, come here.”

  He stares at me with a face of stone, and I see how hard he’s working to fight back the tears.

  “Please,” I say, barely containing my own emotions, “come here.” I pat the edge of the bed beside me.

  After a few seconds, he gets up and kneels on the floor beside the bed, reaching for my hands, which I quickly wrap around his. He pulls them to his mouth and says, “I’m sorry.” He looks up at me and a tear rolls down his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sam.” My heart squeezes inside my chest. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You didn’t do anything. This isn’t your fault. What happened to Joe. To me. It was just an accident.”

  He’s quiet for a few long seconds.

  “It is not your fault, okay?” I say again, praying he believes it.

  He lifts his head and looks at me. “I miss him, Lucy.”

  “I know you do. I miss him too.”

  “He was a good man. He should still be here.”

  “He was.” I nod. “And he’ll always be with us. In our hearts. And with Tristan. He’s a part of him now. He’s still with us, Sam.”

  He drops his forehead to my hand, and I run my fingers through his wavy hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

  He puts his hand on my stomach and looks up at me. “I don’t know how I would live if something happened to you too.”

  “We’re okay,” I whisper over the ache in my heart that won’t go away. I close my eyes and exhale a quiet breath. “We’re okay.”

  He sniffs and stands up, but I hold on to his hand.

  “Sam, I know you don’t want to talk to a professional, and that’s okay, just promise you’ll talk to me,” I plead, afraid that he’s going to drift further and further away from me if he doesn’t. I fend off the fear of that thought and say, “I want you to tell me when you feel sad. Or angry. Or happy.” I smile softly over a sob that’s trying to get out. “Because you’re all I have in the entire world,” I say through clenched teeth to keep the sob inside.

  He stares at me with his stone face and whispers, “I know.”

  “I need you right now, Sam. We need you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  One Week Later

  “Are you comfortable?” Sam asks, leaning over my wheelchair.

  “Yes. But is this really necessary? I think I can stand long enough to take the elevator a few floors down to Molly’s apartment.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” he says, guiding me into the foyer. “I’m just glad Tristan decided to recover at her place. His apartment is all the way across town.”

  “I’m just glad he has Molly to take care of him.”

  “Me too. I don’t how I would have taken care of both of you.” He laughs softly, but the thought makes me sad. Sam is Tristan’s only family now. That’s something that we have in common.

  We take the elevator down to the sixteenth floor, and Sam pushes me down the hallway to Molly’s apartment.

  Sam knocks on the door and she answers it quickly. “Hey,” she says with a bright smile.

  “Hey, Molls,” Sam says, pushing me inside her apartment.

  “Hi, Molly.” I smile at her.

  “Lucy. Oh, my gosh.” She leans down to give me a hug. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m actually much better. I really don’t need this wheelchair anymore,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at Sam. “Can I get up now?” I ask him.

  He locks the wheels in place and helps me stand up, and I ignore the dull ache in my hip.

  “Well, look at you,” Tristan says, greeting me with open arms and a big, beautiful smile. He looks better than I expected, just a little thinner than usual.

  “Tristan.” I smile at him, but as soon as he wraps his arms around me, the weight of the last month comes crashing down, knocking my emotional floodgate open. I feel Sam’s hand on my back, but he doesn’t say anything. Neither does Molly. They just wait while I get it out.

  Tristan releases me and puts his hands on my arms. “Hey, it’s okay, Luc.” He inhales a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “We’re all okay.” He rubs my arms and hugs me again.

  I nod and wipe the tears from my face. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

  “A lot.” He smiles softly. “I know.”

  I press my lips together and nod. “Yeah.”

  “Come on,” Sam says, taking my hand. “Let’s go sit down.”

  “Yes, please”—Tristan puts his hand on his chest—“before I pass out.” He laughs and it lightens the mood a little.

  We follow him and Molly into the living room and sit down on the couch.

  “Molly, I love your apartment,” I say, glancing around the open space that’s splashed with
bold pops of color, black and white pillows and curtains, and white walls that are adorned with vintage artwork.

  “Thanks. It’s a work in progress.” She shrugs and says unapologetically, “I redecorate a lot.”

  “She means, she gets bored easily,” Tristan teases, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

  “Well, you definitely have an artistic eye.” I smile at her.

  “Thank you,” she says, then she lightly shoves Tristan’s shoulder.

  “Hey. Injured over here,” he says to her, and she pushes her lips into a small pout.

  She drops her head and kisses his shoulder. “Sorry, pumpkin.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sam says, getting up from the couch. “You guys are going to make me sick.”

  Tristan gives him a wide grin that matches Molly’s, and it makes me giggle.

  “Got anything to drink in the kitchen, Molly?”

  She squints her eyes and shrugs. “Bottled water.”

  “Water’s fine.” He looks at me. “Want a water, Luc?”

  “No, I’m okay. Thanks, pumpkin,” I say before he leaves the room.

  He spins around and says seriously, “No.” He smiles at me and his dimples go straight to my heart—dimples I haven’t seen for far too long. “Do not call me that.” He laughs freely and it makes my heart swell.

  I smile at him as he leaves the room. Maybe he’s starting to feel better.

  “Lucy, how’s the baby?” Molly asks.

  “Good. She’s about the size of a banana now.” I shake my head at the comparison. “That’s what all the websites say anyway.”

  “I just can’t wait to meet her,” she says sweetly. “You know we’ll babysit anytime.” She looks at Tristan, and he shakes his head at her.

  I put my hand on my small bump and laugh. “How are you feeling, Tris?” I ask, surprised that he’s already up and around.

  “I feel pretty good, actually. Tired, but that should go away soon. Molly’s been taking good care of me.” He winks at her.

  “I’m tired too, but because of the baby, I think. And from lying around doing nothing all day,” I grumble at Sam, who returns with a bottle of water.

  He sits down beside me and says, “That’s literally the definition of bed rest.”