next to Sarah’s bed and drapes herself over Sarah’s prostrate body. “Sarah,” she says, emotion overwhelming her. “ Mi hijita. ”
I want to be the one sitting next to Sarah, draping myself over her. But, clearly, a mother’s love trumps a boyfriend’s—especially when the boyfriend’s the one who fucked up and let harm come to his girlfriend in the first place.
“Is there anything you need?” I ask. “Mrs. Cruz? Can I get you something to eat? Anything to drink?”
Mrs. Cruz doesn’t respond. She’s got her head on Sarah’s stomach and she’s crying her eyes out.
Yeah, I know the fucking feeling.
I wake up in a chair in the corner of the hospital room. When did I fall asleep? I was having a crazy-ass dream—a dream about Miss Westbrook. What the hell? I haven’t thought about Miss Westbrook in probably fifteen years.
The room is silent except for the clicks and beeps of the medical equipment. Sarah’s fast asleep with her mom still draped over her. Kat’s asleep in a chair on the opposite side of the room. I didn’t see her arrive. A nurse is changing Sarah’s IV bag. I stare at Sarah’s heart monitor for several minutes, making sure her pulse is steady and strong, and then I close my eyes again.
My head jerks up. How long was I asleep? Fuck, these crazy-ass dreams won’t leave me alone. Am I losing my mind?
Sarah’s mom is awake, holding Sarah’s hand as she sleeps. Kat’s gone. I get up and tiptoe over to Sarah and softly kiss her lips. My heart is heavy—I’m surprised it can beat at all with fifty-pound rocks weighing it down.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispers when my lips leave hers.
I didn’t mean to wake her—but I’m relieved to hear her voice. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“You saved my life,” she whispers. She closes her eyes and a tear trickles down her cheek.
I don’t know why Sarah keeps saying that. I can only assume it’s the painkillers talking because what’s happened to Sarah is all my fucking fault.
Chapter 7
Jonas
On the first day of me being Miss Westbrook’s after-school helper, she doesn’t talk to me all that much except to tell me what jobs she wants me to do. I clean the whiteboard, making sure to erase every little smudge, even off the corners. After that, I sharpen her pencils, making each one the exact same length, and then I staple thirty sets of worksheets, making sure to line up the staples in each and every corner in exactly the same spot.
Miss Westbrook says I’m doing a great job and that I “pay great attention to detail.” No one has ever said that to me before. I smile at her—just a teeny-tiny bit—and when I do, she smiles so big at me, I almost laugh. Almost.
The second day is the same as the first, except I pay even more “attention to detail,” hoping she’ll say something nice to me again. And she does.
“Jonas, you do excellent work,” she says. “Anyone can do a good job, but it’s the special few who care enough to do an excellent job. Thank you for caring so much about excellence .”
I feel all warm and gushy inside. She’s the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen and I like it when she’s nice to me.
On the third day, I know all my jobs so well, I finish them in half the time—so Miss Westbrook gives me even more jobs to do. And on this day, yippee, while I’m doing my extra work, Miss Westbrook starts talking to me. She shows me a teeny-tiny diamond ring on her finger—the diamond’s so small it’s like a grain of sand—and she tells me the ring is how you know she’s getting married. I’ve seen that ring on Miss Westbrook’s hand before, but I just thought she wore it to look pretty.
Miss Westbrook tells me her name’s going to be Mrs. Santorini in a few weeks and that the man she’s going to marry is in the Navy. She explains how people in the Navy are fighting to protect our country and our freedoms. She says we couldn’t do any of the stuff we get to do
I want to be the one sitting next to Sarah, draping myself over her. But, clearly, a mother’s love trumps a boyfriend’s—especially when the boyfriend’s the one who fucked up and let harm come to his girlfriend in the first place.
“Is there anything you need?” I ask. “Mrs. Cruz? Can I get you something to eat? Anything to drink?”
Mrs. Cruz doesn’t respond. She’s got her head on Sarah’s stomach and she’s crying her eyes out.
Yeah, I know the fucking feeling.
I wake up in a chair in the corner of the hospital room. When did I fall asleep? I was having a crazy-ass dream—a dream about Miss Westbrook. What the hell? I haven’t thought about Miss Westbrook in probably fifteen years.
The room is silent except for the clicks and beeps of the medical equipment. Sarah’s fast asleep with her mom still draped over her. Kat’s asleep in a chair on the opposite side of the room. I didn’t see her arrive. A nurse is changing Sarah’s IV bag. I stare at Sarah’s heart monitor for several minutes, making sure her pulse is steady and strong, and then I close my eyes again.
My head jerks up. How long was I asleep? Fuck, these crazy-ass dreams won’t leave me alone. Am I losing my mind?
Sarah’s mom is awake, holding Sarah’s hand as she sleeps. Kat’s gone. I get up and tiptoe over to Sarah and softly kiss her lips. My heart is heavy—I’m surprised it can beat at all with fifty-pound rocks weighing it down.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah whispers when my lips leave hers.
I didn’t mean to wake her—but I’m relieved to hear her voice. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“You saved my life,” she whispers. She closes her eyes and a tear trickles down her cheek.
I don’t know why Sarah keeps saying that. I can only assume it’s the painkillers talking because what’s happened to Sarah is all my fucking fault.
Chapter 7
Jonas
On the first day of me being Miss Westbrook’s after-school helper, she doesn’t talk to me all that much except to tell me what jobs she wants me to do. I clean the whiteboard, making sure to erase every little smudge, even off the corners. After that, I sharpen her pencils, making each one the exact same length, and then I staple thirty sets of worksheets, making sure to line up the staples in each and every corner in exactly the same spot.
Miss Westbrook says I’m doing a great job and that I “pay great attention to detail.” No one has ever said that to me before. I smile at her—just a teeny-tiny bit—and when I do, she smiles so big at me, I almost laugh. Almost.
The second day is the same as the first, except I pay even more “attention to detail,” hoping she’ll say something nice to me again. And she does.
“Jonas, you do excellent work,” she says. “Anyone can do a good job, but it’s the special few who care enough to do an excellent job. Thank you for caring so much about excellence .”
I feel all warm and gushy inside. She’s the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen and I like it when she’s nice to me.
On the third day, I know all my jobs so well, I finish them in half the time—so Miss Westbrook gives me even more jobs to do. And on this day, yippee, while I’m doing my extra work, Miss Westbrook starts talking to me. She shows me a teeny-tiny diamond ring on her finger—the diamond’s so small it’s like a grain of sand—and she tells me the ring is how you know she’s getting married. I’ve seen that ring on Miss Westbrook’s hand before, but I just thought she wore it to look pretty.
Miss Westbrook tells me her name’s going to be Mrs. Santorini in a few weeks and that the man she’s going to marry is in the Navy. She explains how people in the Navy are fighting to protect our country and our freedoms. She says we couldn’t do any of the stuff we get to do
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