Page 283 of Ricardo

Ricardo leads me down the hall.

Dante’s room is dim.

He is still unconscious.

Still pale.

Still surrounded by machines that make soft, steady sounds beside the bed. The sight of him hurts as badly as it did the first time, but there is a strange relief in it too.

He is here.

He is breathing.

He made it through the night.

I sit beside him and take his hand carefully around the IV.

“Hi,” I whisper.

Nothing changes.

Ricardo stands on the other side of the bed, one hand resting on the rail, his eyes on his son.

For a while, neither of us speaks.

I study Dante’s face, the bruising, the slackness of sedation, the faint movement of his chest beneath the blanket. I think of him in the car, watching me pretend I was fine. Of knowing better and handing me the water. I think of him pushing me down behind the counter before I could even understand what was going on.

“You’re going to be so annoying when you wake up,” I say softly.

Ricardo’s gaze lifts to mine.

I keep my eyes on Dante.

“You’ll pretend this was all very inconvenient. You’ll hate everyone fussing over you. You’ll probably complain about the hospital food.”

My voice cracks.

“And then I’m going to have to yell at you.”

Ricardo looks down at his son, and something close to pain moves across his face.

“I’m going to yell at you because you scared me,” I whisper. “Because you saved me again, and I’m grateful, but I’m also angry. Because why did you have to get shot doing it?”

The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.

I wipe my cheek with my shoulder because I do not want to let go of his hand.

“You don’t get to do that,” I say. “You don't get to just sleep through the whole thing. Wake up and take your lickin’, Dante.”

Ricardo lowers his head.

His hand moves to Dante’s hair.

“Listen to her,” he says. “She makes excellent points.”

A broken laugh slips out of me.

It turns into another tear.