Page 40 of The KING Review

“Traitors,” I grumble. “I’m fine. This is so unnecessary.”

Nobody dignifies that with a response.

The ER is exactly as grim as any I’ve ever been in, a purgatory of fluorescent lights, sticky vinyl chairs, the distant soundtrack of babies wailing and some guy coughing up a lung behind a curtain. Wren drops me onto a bench with all the ceremony of setting down a gym bag, and the world rights itself violently.

I try to play it cool, but my heart’s in my ass, every beat a little louder than the last. The smell alone makes my skin prickle with cold sweat. I’m suddenly tiny, six again, the world tilting out of my control, and it’s all my fault, like usual.

Vida sees right through my attempt at steadiness.

She sits close, hand warm and grounding on my good knee. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

I nod, but my mouth is as dry as sandpaper. I can’t catch a real breath.

Wren and River stand together, both checking their phones, eyes flicking to the wall clock. Their flight hangs over them like a guillotine. They don’t say anything, but the tension is louder than words. I know the stakes. I don’t want to be the reason they miss a game.

Vida leans in, searching my face. “Do you want me to stay with you? I don’t have to go.”

I want to say yes. I want to cry, tell her how scared I am, and beg her not to leave. But I see how tight River’s jaw is, the flex of Wren’s hand by his side. It’s so fucking obvious. They both want to say something, but they won’t. They won’t stop Vida from staying. What she said is true—they have to go, but she doesn’t—but I can see how gutted they look at the idea of her missing their game. She’s always at their games.

The only thing keeping her in place is me, and I can feel it pressing down already—the weight of knowing if I asked, if I so much as breathed that I needed her, she’d stay. I want her to. I want it so bad my teeth ache with it.

I grin, brittle, and wave her off like I’m shooing a pigeon. “Go! Seriously, Vida. I’m fine. It’s an ankle, not a mortal wound. I’ll call Fia or Cade or literally anybody if it turns out to be more than a boot.” I’m aware that my voice is doing the too-bright, over-caffeinated thing, but nobody calls me on it.

Vida sits back, searching my face. She’s not buying it. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie, mouth dry and pulsing with static. “I’m sure. I don’t want you to miss the game because of my tragic ability to trip over air. I’ll be fine. Go kick ass.”

Wren doesn’t move. Vida lingers, hand still glued to my knee. “You’ll call if you get scared?”

I snort, the sound sharp and desperate. “I’ll call. Promise.”

I won’t. I know I won’t.

She hugs me, smelling like rosewater and sanitizer and something green. I squeeze as hard as I can, because it’s grounding, and I don’t want to let go, but then I do. She looks at me for a long beat. “You’re sure?”

“If you ask me again, I’ll cry.”

That gets a laugh out of River, who claps my shoulder, and even Wren’s mouth twitches. I keep my smile until they’re gone, and then I let my whole body slump.

The ER sucks, immediately and all at once. Every noise is amplified, the lights are knives, and the pain in my ankle is making me sweat. I text Vida a little boot emoji (it’s the hiking boot, but whatever), and she sends back a string of hearts, but I can hardly look at them.

I tuck my phone under my thigh and stare at the ceiling, counting the dots in the tiles, trying not to think about the last time I was here, or any of the times after where I fought just as tooth and nail not to be as I did tonight.

The waiting is a thing with teeth. Every second chews at me. I fucking hate it here.

My phone is a dead weight in my hand, and even though I told Vida I’d call Fia or Cade, I know exactly how that would go. If I tell Fia, she’ll either teleport here in a rage or start texting every three minutes for status updates, and honestly, I can’t deal with my sister’s brand of high-stakes emotional triage when I’m barely holding my shit together as it is.

I love her, but she can be a lot when she’s worried. For a woman who claims to be “rational,” she can spiral like no one else. I can’t be the one to set that bomb off.

So, it’s Cade. Easy, light, never overreacts. He’s the safe option. I open our messages and stare at the little blinking cursor, heart hammering up in my throat. I know I should just say, “Hey, I fucked up my ankle again, and I’m in the ER. Can you come get me before I have a full-on panic event and start biting?” But that’s not how I’m built.

Me:

hey, you home tonight? Got this bottle of rosé in my fridge that is dying for company. Not saying I’m dying, but if this wine doesn’t get opened soon it’s going to start talking to me

I don’t like rosé enough to drink it alone tbh

I wince at my own cowardice. I should just say what I’m trying to say, but I can’t. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be the reason anyone’s night is ruined.