Page 144 of Call You Mine
When I wake up the next morning, I’m surprised to find the bed empty.
And cold.
Grabbing my phone from where it sits on my nightstand, I find a text from Anderson asking me to call him when I wake up, but it doesn’t settle any of my uneasiness.
The familiar prickling begins in my fingertips, the need to count—my breaths, my palms opening and closing, the amount of times I turn my phone on and off, finding the same message every time—along with the empty bed.
Count with me, Ava. The paramedics will be there any minute, okay? Just focus on your breathing. Ready? Breathe in. Good, that’s one. Breathe out. Good, that’s another one. Keep going. Two, three, four…
The unwanted, unwarranted memory clouds my vision, causing my thoughts to begin spiraling.
It feels like something is wrong, but is it my gut or is it my OCD?
I can’t trust either right now, not with the way my anxiety has me picturing Anderson’s car wrapped around a tree, his body flung from the driver’s seat, his blood spread across the grass.
While it’s most likely that he might have fallen asleep at the hospital, my brain doesn’t let me think like that.
If I don’t count, if I don’t get to seventeen, something’s going to happen to him.
If it hasn’t already.
Just like with Rumi.
Just like the fire.
I push myself up, my feet finding the floor when I feel a gush of warmth between my legs. Standing up, it turns into a rush of liquid pouring onto the floor, uncontrollable and momentarily stunning me, forcing my mind to focus on the moment, not what my mind is so desperately wanting me to focus on.
“Georgie!” I call out, immediately falling into action, into what I can control.
I dial Anderson’s number, holding the phone up to my ear when my sister comes through the room. “What’s w—” her words die on her tongue when she sees the puddle of liquid at my feet.
“Call Rumi and Emerson,” I instruct just as I get Anderson’s voicemail, but I can’t fall into the spiral of where he is and what’s wrong.
The baby’s coming.
CHAPTER 53
ANDERSON
SendingAva’s call to voicemail and silencing my phone is like holding my hand directly in a fire and refusing to take it out, even with how painful it is.
“Sorry, Doctor. Can you repeat that?”
I didn’t plan on being here at the hospital overnight, but when I finally got to Auggie’s room after talking to Ava, things got dicey.
When Uncle Artie called me, Auggie was stable, but that was short-lived. He needed to be rushed back into surgery, and it’s been touch-and-go all night. I couldn’t leave, not when I didn’t know if he was going to wake up.
He was shot.
My little brother was fuckingshot.
And my mom is a complete mess, especially with the police refusing to give us the details about what led to it.
My gut has been telling mesomethingwas up with Auggie—the way he’s been acting, the questions he’s been asking.
I should’ve pushed him more, answered those calls from Alex and Archie, and called my mom more to check in.
But when Auggie sent those texts, making conversation, Ijust figured he had finally grown up. That he didn’t need my help anymore—just wanted to be my brother.
