Page 41 of The KING Review

Seconds drag. The lights here are too bright. There’s a child screaming somewhere down the hall, and everything smells like plastic and lemon bleach.

My phone pings.

Cady-baby:

Oh damn, little Hart, you know I’d never say no to free wine, but we’re out of town right now. Conference. Fia’s got me in hotel lockdown because the paparazzi out here are after her since the app update. Raincheck?

My stomach drops through the floor. I knew there was a possibility they wouldn’t be in town, but it still knocks the air out of me. I don’t want to tell him I’m alone at the ER because I know he’d drive straight back here if I asked him to.

I think of the handful of people I’ve met at Talan so far. I’m not close to any of them like that—not close enough to call when I’m stuck in a hospital with my skin buzzing and my heart vibrating in my throat. The urge to cry is an undertow, relentless and mean.

Me:

all good, just thought I’d ask!

don’t let her stop you from getting your fifteen minutes of fame, boo, sneak out

He sends back three laughing emojis and a thumbs up. I want to crawl into a pit.

A nurse appears, blue scrubs and a no-nonsense ponytail. “Hart?”

I flinch, almost fumbling my phone.

“Sorry.” She softens an obviously tired smile. “I just wanted to let you know x-ray is backed up tonight, but a tech will see you soon. Probably thirty, forty minutes. You need anything?”

I shake my head on reflex, but as she turns to leave, I call after her. “Oh, wait, uh—can you show me where the bathroom is, please?”

My throat is so tight I can barely force the words out.

The nurse gives me directions and hands over a pair of crutches, all brisk efficiency. My ankle throbs, but it’s background noise compared to the blitzkrieg in my brain.

I drag myself down the hallway, clumsy as a newborn giraffe. The bathroom is a tiled tomb, harsh lights, everything echoing. I lock the door and slouch against it, breath rattling through my chest, but there’s no air in here. My heart’s banging like it’s trying to break through my ribs.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this alone.

I stare at my screen, scrolling up and down my messages. My hand is shaking so hard I can barely read the caller IDs. That’s when I see it.

Professor Daddy

I tap into our thread and hit record before I can overthink it.

“Hey,” I start, and my voice is papery, thin as a wet napkin. “I know you’re probably busy, and this is so…weird. Stupid. Sorry. I just—I didn’t have anybody else I could call, and I’m not, like, drunk, I swear, I only had one drink, and I wouldn’t—I just, I’m in the ER, and they said they’re gonna do an x-ray, but it’s gonna be a long time, and I’m by myself, and I hate it here—I fucking hate it here. It’s so loud, and I can’t breathe—” I choke on the words, as if on cue, then force myself to continue, even as my voice gets so high that probably only nearby dogs can hear it. “I know we’re not… But I just—fuck, please, could you just, I don’t know… tell me I’m an idiot and to get over myself? I just—I’m sorry, this is so fucking embarrassing. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you. I just, I don’t want to be alone. I can’t⁠—”

My voice trips, then breaks. I try to swallow it, but a sob bursts out of me. It echoes in the tiled room. There are tears rolling down my throat by the time I fumble with my phone, horror flooding my veins.

I try to delete the voice note, but my hands are shaking so hard; my thumb slips, and I hit send instead. It’s gone. I see the little “delivered” checkmark pop up.

My stomach bottoms out.

Oh no, no, no.

I frantically try to unsend it, fingers tap-dancing on the glass, but then someone knocks on the door, and I jump like I’ve been shot.

“Just a second!” I call, cracked-in-half and hoarse. I spin toward the mirror to find my eyes neon red and raw, lashes spiked with tears.

I’m a fucking mess.

I dab at my face with shaking hands. Nose: red. Cheeks: blotchy. Mascara: totally unsalvageable.