by Ella James
Except he isn’t.
If he really wanted me, he’d find me. In the end, we’re at the church together three days before Luke, Pearl, and a few more leave for Tokyo. I don’t go outside into our port-a-room—not ever—and I never see him.
Then he’s gone, and it feels like the end.
I know I should feel freed. But I don’t. As the days pass, I find I feel…tangled. I finish the mural on a Friday. Monday, there’s a banquet for me—linner thing. I talk to a bunch of people who work at the church, and in the end, one of the elders of all fucking people talks me into doing a sort of open house for the piece. It’s not scheduled, but I’m told someone will call me. Maybe Pearl.
Pearl does call—on Tuesday. She tells me the church has me booked to stay in the townhouse for another week in case I want to see the city.
I tell her I don’t.
“How are you, Vance? I’m so sad I missed your finish.”
“I’m all right. How is Japan?”
“There’s a lot of good food here. And culture.” I think I can hear her smile as she says, “Missing Arman just a little. Maybe low-key sort of want to come home. Don’t tell, okay?”
“Promise.”
For a second, there’s some hesitation on the line. From her or me? A minute later, the call’s over. I look down at my phone’s screen. Somehow, it’s showing my textbox. Nothing new in there.
I check out of my hotel the next day with the intention of going back to Chelsea. That’s when I remember—Centaur.
Thinking of that gets me upset. I shed a few tears for the guy and tell myself that I’ll be less impulsive next time.
Next time what? I scoff to myself.
Next time someone breaks my heart, I answer.
San Francisco in May is cold and rainy. Still, I decide to stay a few days, just walking around and seeing stuff. Maybe if I spend a little more time, it won’t feel like such a bandage ripped off when I go.
I do MMA somewhere using a guest pass, and I find I’m crazy out of shape. I stay at this little mom and pop hotel. The gym I found is right around the corner. I go twice a day for two days, and the locals think I live here.
For the first time in a while, I wish I could call Mom.
More days pass. I stop going to the gym and enroll in an art class. That night, as I lie in my hotel bed, I force myself to admit there’s something wrong with me. I stand in the shower thinking. I tried not to think about him, but I couldn’t make a clean break from the calendar.
Luke’s been back in San Francisco for six days now. Six days without me. I wonder if he’s seeing her. I want to hope he’s seeing her. I used to tell myself that stupid lie—that I’d be happy if he was with someone.
I smile grimly as I dry myself off.
I hope he’s alone. If I can do it, he can.
Petty.
It’s not really even true. I look online for a sign that he’s back with her. Megan Mason is her name, and she seems like a perfectly fine person. If he was with her, that would be good. She could keep him from getting too lonely. In the end, that’s why I can’t go. It’s fucked up, but I’m a fuckup for him. I need to see if he’s okay.
You can’t change a tiger’s stripes. I’m still that guy. I want to be sure he has someone to sit with at school lunch. Realizing that makes me feel like I might cry.
“You’re the most emotional person I’ve ever met.”
I guess I really am. I wipe my face on the hotel’s towel. Not like I asked for it.
I dress in chucks, my black jeans, and a maroon hoodie with a Beatles shirt underneath. It’s a drizzly day out. I don’t have a car, so I call a rideshare and give directions to a street I think is near his.
It’s a Saturday. He could be home. If he doesn’t want to see me, he won’t let me past the gate.
25
Vance
The gate is open. That’s weird. I walk through it slowly, like I’m breaking the law. Maybe I am. When I see the garage door open, my heart hammers. He just came home. That’s gotta be the explanation. Maybe she’s with him. They’re distracted.
I walk into the garage, past the Tesla. I’ll try the door. It will be locked, of course. The damn thing has a fingerprint lock. When it’s locked, then I can go. This was crazy. I think I’ll fly home today.
I try the knob. It turns. It can’t really be unlocked, so I push inward.
The door opens.
Fuck. I’m staring at the Rothkos. I could take one.
Something hot starts in my head and moves through my chest…down my arms. My palms are hot. My cheeks are hot.
Luke? I almost call out down the hall, toward the kitchen. I’m met with a slap of resistance. Uninvited. You’re not wanted. You should go.
I steel myself and step toward the kitchen. Something’s weird about the space. As I reach the granite bar space, see the kitchen counter, I realize: it’s quiet. If he’s here and he’s distracted by her, why is it so quiet?
There’s a fruit bowl on the counter. I remember. Now it catches my eye because there are gnats above it.
My throat cinches. My head spins. Oh hell no. Jesus fucking Christ, Luke. No. You wouldn’t do that.
The staff. I tell myself he isn’t even here, nor has he been here. The staff fucked up. As I move down the hall, footsteps muted by the long rug, I cling to the idea that his room will be empty when I push open the door.
It’s not. There is someone in the bed. My brain screams. It’s afternoon.
I step inside on balloon legs. I’m not even near the bed yet, but I’m so sure he’s alone that I call for him. “Luke?”
Nothing.
In that moment, I am sure down to my bones that Luke is dead. I am so sure, tears are filling up my eyes, so I’m nearly blind as my body propels itself toward his bed.
“Sky, man.” My voice quivers, so the words sound wrong.
Then I blink and I can see him, lying on his side, his body partially swathed in blankets. The first thing I notice is his cheeks. They’re bright, candy-apple red.
“Luke?”
I reach out, my hand aimed for his face. When my fingers touch him, I draw back—because his skin is that hot. I reach for him again, spreading my palm over his forehead.
“Hey? Buddy? Hey, man…” I press his hair back off his forehead, find it sweaty. “Luke.” I make the word sharp. “Luke.” It’s a demand. Finally, his eyelids flutter. He makes a groan-like sound, and I notice his lips. They’re so chapped, they’re cracked in one spot.
“Hey, Sky. Open up your eyes and look at me. It’s Vance.”
That should shock him into action—and it does. His eyelids peel open, just enough so I can see how glazed his eyes are. His eyes squeeze shut. His shoulders jerk. I realize he’s shaking.
“Luke?”
Fuck, that’s some shaking. Is he seizing? I jump on the bed beside him, toss the covers off, and watch as he recoils, like the air burns his bare skin. He’s wearing just boxer-briefs. Too lean. Fuck, his abs look granite sculpted. I can see his hipbones.
He groans—a small, hoarse, un-Luke-like sound—and my gaze moves back to his face.
“Hey there, man.” I shake his shoulder, willing him to open his eyes. He’s shaking so hard it’s almost unreal. Then he starts to cough. Once he gets going, he can’t stop. I can tell because his eyes flip open in alarm, and his hand comes to his throat. It’s a low, rough-sounding cough with lots of wheezing at the end. Then, with no breather, another coughing fit. His dazed eyes grab hold of mine, and I realize I should be doing something.
I grab his arm, trying to pull him up, but he’s shaking so violently, and still coughing. Finally the coughing stops. He’s wheezing as bad as I do. I pat my pockets. Fuck. Why do I never have my inhaler when I need to?
I push his hair up off his forehead again. Fuck, his face is pale. What the hell is wrong?
I call Pearl with fumbling hands. The phone rings four times before she answers.
“Vance?”
There’s som
e noise behind her. Music.
“Pearl. There’s something wrong with Luke.”
“I know.” Her voice sounds small and far off.
“Pearl. He’s like…halfway unconscious. Have you talked—”
“He’s got the flu.” She says something else, but I can’t hear because there’s static on the line.
“I can’t hear you!”
Again—static.
“Call me back, Pearl.”
“No.” I make out that word, but there’s something after it.
“I can’t hear.”
“I got married,” she says loudly.
“What? Congrats.”
“And I’m in Spain!” There’s something else. Bad static. “Vance—” Her tone is imploring, but I don’t know what she’s saying. “Can you…” She cuts out. I hear, “at his house.”
“I’m at his house. He needs to see a doctor.”
What are the odds she knows? None, I tell myself, as I wait on her answer. There’s a long pause, filled with static.
I hear “UC,” which doesn’t make much sense. “UCSF—” Something else, and then she says, “Take him…UCSF…Center. Todd.” For a half second, the line is clear. “Go to UCSF Medical. He sees Dr. Todd.” She’s shouting—for good measure, I guess.
“I will.”
Luke moans again.
I look up and he’s on his back, shaking hard with his arms drawn up T-rex style near his chest. His face is bent in pain, and his chest pumps as he tries to breathe.
“Hey.” I cup my palm around his cheek, shocked anew at how damn hot he is. “I’m gonna take you to the doctor, okay? You want to feel better?”
His eyes lock onto mine for the first time, like maybe he understands what I’m saying. Then they roll back.
“Fuck.”
I squeeze his hands and tug on his arms, trying to get him rolled over. He’s shaking so badly, it seems like he’s awake—but he’s not. There’s something really wrong.
“Luke.” His eyelids peel open. “We’ve gotta get down off the bed and walk to the car, okay, my man?”
His eyelids peel open. His cracked lips are so swollen, it looks like someone hit him in the mouth. I can hear a crackling wheeze every time he exhales, and now that I’m looking him over, I realize he’s breathing fast with chest retractions people get when their lungs really don’t work. Dude must have a rockin’ case of pneumonia.
I hesitate for a just second before taking one of his hands in mine. Man oh man, even his hands burn.
My thumb strokes the underside of his wrist and hold his glassy gaze. “It’s gonna be okay, dude. Just gotta get you to the car, then we’ll be gravy.”
I step back and look around. The office chair. I push it beside the bed and drag him by his legs. Luke lets out a low groan, and sweat pops out on my forehead as I wrap my arms around him and brace him for a controlled fall into the chair.
It’s so weird…because he does just that. He falls—like a rag doll. His head sort of bounces, and his eyelids crack open, but he doesn’t lift it. Lying askew in the chair, so pale and limp, still shaking, he looks really fucking sick.
He doesn’t move as I wrap him in a sheet—to keep him from falling out of the chair while I push it. I push him into the kitchen, where I find the key fob. Then I open the car door and drag him from the chair and down the three stairs to the car. Hauling him in, I bash his temple against the door frame. He looks up at me, and his face twists like he might cry, but he starts coughing instead.
Shit, I hate this so much. I stuff his legs into the car so I can shut the door, then go to the driver’s side and drag him by his shoulders.
“Luke?”
He groans as I slide behind the wheel. I back out, and he falls forward from the car’s seat, coughing as his head hangs toward the floorboard.
“Fuck.” I pull him back up.
His eyes flutter. “Vance?”
I steel myself. “I came to help you out, man. Take you to the doctor.” He braces his hand against the car’s front console and groans. I tug him a little toward me. Then I lock an arm around him, under his arm.
“Fuck shit.” I forgot to put an address into my GPS. I fix that, and starts to shiver hard again as I jet off in that direction.
I brake hard for a light, and he moans.
“Shit. I’m sorry, buddy.”
He’s trying to move. I realize his head is coming toward my legs. His hand reaches for me, closing around my knee. Then he shifts, so his face is resting on my lap.
Despite myself, I wrap my arm around him.
“It’s okay, McD.” He’s so hot, I can feel his fever through my pants. He starts shaking again, gripping my leg tighter as he does.
“I’ve got you.”
I keep my arm locked around his torso the whole time, my muscles aching with the strain of keeping his big, mostly limp self from falling into the floor space.
As I turn left into the hospital’s ER spot, he groans again and whimpers my name.
“It’s okay.”
I park right by the ER’s automatic doors, lift Luke’s head, and slide out from under him. Then I half jog to the ER desk.
“Hey.” I drop my voice down so it’s whispered. “I need Dr. Todd. I’ve got a patient of his, came in the car, really fucked up.” My own voice is shaking. I don’t even know how worked up I am until I realize I can’t breathe myself.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse behind the desk says. “Dr. Todd is not on call. You’ll need to bring the patient inside if he needs emergency care.”
“He can’t walk.” And then I can’t hold back. Another nurse walks up, and I hiss, “It’s Luke McDowell. My brother. He’s really sick. His assistant said this is his preferred hospital.”
That starts all the whispers and the long glances. But I made the right call. Just a minute or two later, I’m leading two EMTs—they’re carrying a stretcher—out to the Tesla, opening the door. I find Luke lying on his back with his eyes open. He looks miserable.
Someone pushes me aside, and the two guys lift him up onto the stretcher. He lifts his head a little, looking for my eyes, I think.
“I’m right here, dude.”
He tries to move his head as they carry him into a curtained space and shift him from stretcher to bed. Luke starts coughing. Really coughing. That brings more nurses. Several stand around his bed frowning and talking. He’s shaking so fucking hard. Someone presses a stethoscope to his chest, and he seems shrink into the pillow. A nurse seated right by his bed gets up, and his eyes pull open. He looks around.
“Vance?” His eyes start to roll back in his head before they fix on my face.
A nurse says, “Let’s get pressers, too,” and then another one takes his arm. “How do you feel, Mr. McDowell?”
He looks at her. I can barely hear his voice as he half-wheezes. “Not good.”
“I’m going to start an IV, but let’s talk while I prep your arm.”
His eyes drift shut. He shivers harder, and I wish someone would put some goddamn blankets on him.
A male nurse leans over his head, holding something that looks wand-like. It beeps. “One-oh-six here on the forehead.”
Three more people pour in. Everything seems to move quickly. Luke’s eyes pop open, and the nurse that’s been at his arm says, “Got him.” I realize she’s taping an IV into the inner crevice of his arm that’s opposite me.
Luke is wincing.
“Did you hurt him? He hates needles.”
The nurse gives me a flat-lipped look. Then she hangs an IV bag on a stand by him.
I move over toward him, and another nurse holds her arm out. “Sir, you need to step back. Are you a family member?”
“I’m his brother.”
A man down by his feet looks up, giving me a skeptic’s frown. “Luke McDowell doesn’t have a brother.”
“We’re half brothers,” I snap. “I think I would know.”
His eyes open again as all the nurses swarm him. Som
eone looks into his mouth. Another person prods his chest and stomach. Luke’s hand grips the railing, like he wants to grab it and pull up. Someone moves it.
“Keep your hands at by your sides, pastor. We’re trying to get you assessed.”
By the time the curtained space clears out some a minute later, he’s got IVs running into both arms, and a woman in pink scrubs is sitting by him opposite of me. She’s placing square stickers onto his chest.
“We’re going to get an EKG, Mr. McDowell.”
His fevered eyes roll toward her. His lips part, and his eyes narrow. Then he points his gaze at me.
26
Vance
While the woman messes with those fucking stickers, Luke’s gaze clings to my face.
He’s still shaking so hard, sometimes I think it actually startles him more awake. He gets another round of bad shivering, and I swear I think I see tears in his eyes before he shuts them.
The nurse leaves the stickers on him and gets up with her clip board. When the curtains swish behind her, Luke cracks open his eyes. He looks down at himself, at the sticker lead around one of his shaking fingers and the IVs he’s got going in each arm. He cuts his eyes sideways to see the tube of oxygen that’s running into his nose, and then I’m sure about it—his eyes well with tears.
He squeezes them shut, and his chest starts to rise and fall more sharply.
I crouch down right by him. “Hey, McD.” It’s so natural to touch him—my hands in his hair, my palm draped gently over his hot forehead.
“Vance?” He grits his teeth as his body quakes. “Don’t go.”
“I won’t.”
He gives me a jerky nod. A tear slides slowly toward his temple. I stroke his hair back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” His eyes squeeze shut. Another tear streaks down his fever-pink cheek.
I kiss carefully along its trek. “How do you feel? What’s hurting?”
A man in a white coat walks in, and I practically jump away from Luke. The nurse peels Luke’s thin hospital blanket down, exposing his his hip on my side. Luke jerks, and then groans—and I realize the man just shot him up with something.