Page 178 of True Blue

When I grab my phone, I’m pleasantly surprised to see Indie’s name and contact photo—that one of her laughing at that stupid Larry joke in front of the baby capybara.

A moment of joy that I was able to give to her.

It’s my favorite now.

Smiling, I place the phone to my ear, “Hey, Indie⁠—”

“Actually, it’s Mimi,” a smoke-roughed voice comes through the line. “You sound cute. Are you the loverboy?”

“The… what?” I ask, confused.

“The loverboy that’s been making my little chickie giggle all the time,” she says, her Jersey accent strong.

“Uh, I hope so,” I say eagerly, feeling my chest puff out at that, before my blood runs cold. “Wait, why are you calling? Where’s Indie? Is she okay⁠—”

“Oh, yeah, you’re the loverboy, alright,” she snarks, laughing. “Alright, here’s the bad news—Indie is sick. She started running a pretty high fever about halfway through her shift. Poor thing passed clean out around forty minutes ago⁠—”

“Passed out?!” I shout, my boots clomping across the floors as I slap my pockets.

Wallet and keys–where’s my phone—I’m holding my phone—fuck Indie’s hurt.

Indie, Indie, Indie.

My mind is a fragmented mess of panic as I run outside to my truck, realizing I’m not even wearing my coat as the air bites at my skin. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, but the poor thing smacked her damn head on the ground,” she sighs. “Doc is stitching her up now⁠—”

“Stitches?!”

“—and she’s going to be alright, but she’s running a fever, and we've got a lot of immunocompromised folk in this building. Which brings us to the good news—you need to come get her.”

“Tell her I’ll be there in five minutes,” I say, before hanging up.

GPS tells me fifteen minutes, but Indie is hurt and sick, and I’ll tear through hell itself in gasoline boots to get to her. I peel out of the driveway, slamming my foot on the accelerator as I head to Bluewater.

“Hang on, baby.”

34

TEDDY

JANUARY

Imake it in four-and-a-half minutes.

I don’t remember much of the drive, I’m pretty sure I stopped at the red-lights, but definitely blew through a couple of yellows too. I don’t care. Indie is in trouble and no force on this earth can keep me from her.

Mimi said she was going to be alright on the phone, and I tried my hardest to let those words settle me. But the part of me that can understand reason goes quiet whenever Indie is involved.

My brakes squeal in protest and I barely remember to turn the truck off before I’m out of it, slamming the door behind me and sprinting through the front entrance.

Every head in the lobby turns toward me.

At the front desk, a short, older woman with graying hair squints at me. Then she lifts a pair of glasses from a beaded chain around her neck, settles them on her nose, and the second she sees me clearly, her face shifts to understanding.

“She’s okay,” she says before I can get a word out.

I recognize her as the voice from the phone call—Mimi. Indie once said Mimi was so much like Phoebe, and as I look at her now, sitting at the front desk like a queen on her throne, I can definitely see it.