Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I can't get out of my car, not yet ready to resume life as I know it.

A thin veil of morning fog rises from the pavement as I relax against the headrest and let the night's activities repeat behind my eyes.

Smith loves me.

His confession happened when his skin was next to mine, trembling and warm, his body stirring between my thighs.

Sex isn't what I imagined—and I'd imagined it plenty. It's not like what I'd read in books or seen on TV. There were no waves of pleasure. No tingling fingers or toes. It was uncomfortable at times, the way he navigated his way inside. The gentle pauses, seeking permission, making sure I was okay. His inhales and exhales, releasing faster and faster.

I'd thought about that moment many times before, but never gave a second to how stubborn it might be, those close-fitting parts unfurling for the first time. But as long as our lips were connected, limbs tangled together, our lungs sharing the same breath, I could handle anything.

I can handle anything. Now that I'm certain Smith feels the way I do.

But it's morning now and reality slams into me. A vase filled with pink tea roses is secured in my passenger seat.

Even though it's Sunday, the hospital parking lot is full, and I have to wait for an ambulance to pass, lights flashing but no siren, before turning into an empty space. When I kill the ignition, a twinge of nervousness jabs at my chest.

What will Jordan look like? Will she care if I'm here? Without asking for help—so the staff can't turn me away, tell me I'm not allowed to visit—will I even know where to find her?

Beams of sunlight glint through the trees, distorting shadows, as they stretch across the parking lot. With the vase cradled in my arm, I enter the lobby and dash toward the elevators, all the while searching for signs leading to the pediatric intensive care unit.

And then there it is in bold black letters: PICU, Second Floor.

Before I can change my mind, I slip into an elevator and position the roses to block my face, hoping to camouflage my appearance. But their scent is overwhelming, and does nothing to calm the chaos brewing in my gut.

A ding announces my arrival, and when the elevator doors slide open, I follow more signs directing me down a corridor, the fluorescent lights glaring off the stark white walls. The hall eventually forks off and I'm left in front of another sign welcoming me to the PICU Waiting Room.

That must mean these next set of doors is the entrance to the department. But judging from the black box on the wall, I'll need a badge to get in.

The glass wall of the waiting room exposes the people inside, staring at each other over steaming Styrofoam cups.

It's Jordan's family. I recognize her parents and younger siblings from soccer. All but her father share the same shade of auburn hair. An older couple is with them; grandparents, I presume.
They're talking amongst each other, not paying attention to the girl lurking in the hallway.

I turn away and pace, determining my next move, and I don't have to wait long before a decision is made for me. An older man in a long, white lab coat heads in my direction. He hovers his badge in front of the box and the double doors swing open.

I wait a beat, then slither through behind him, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. I blow out a breath and reposition the roses, blocking my face from the nurse's station up ahead. Though I'm not sure if they'd see me anyway. Between the pink petals, I watch as they dart back and forth behind the counter, attending to beeping monitors on the wall, or answering the endless rings of a phone. One follows the whimper of a child into a nearby room.

I don't know how they work like this, in this noisy, crowded space. My senses are already in overdrive.

A hallway juts out from each end of the station. I take the one that's closest, but as I'm about to set off, a woman's voice catches my attention. "Excuse me, ma'am? Can I help you?"

I let out a gasp and pause. "Um. No, thanks. I've been here a hundred times." I scurry away, my eyes skimming through the window of each patient room I pass. 201, 202, 203, 204. I have no luck down the next hallway either. My heart sinks. If this is set up as a square, I only have two more halls to go down before I'm back at the station.

Before I make the next turn, a nurse dressed in royal blue scrubs covered in white unicorns darts out of the room in front of me. She murmurs an apology I can barely make out over the screech of a sudden call light. I jerk to a stop and glance through the window, a relieved breath escaping my lips. A tuft of auburn hair juts out from the white bedcover.

Jordan.

I glance over my shoulder and watch the nurse disappear before stepping inside the room. When I do, a waft of baby powder hits me square in the face, the fine particles still lingering in the air above the bed. It's not the smell I expected. Astringents and other chemicals, yes. But nothing pleasant or soothing. It reminds me of when Meredith would bathe Rowan as an infant.

Moving as quietly as possible, I set the roses on a nearby table, making sure the vase doesn't clink against the wooden top.

My gaze moves to the heart monitor above Jordan's head. How does she sleep with its constant beeping in her ears, and that sickly green glow keeping track of every beat? But sleeping she is, the rise and fall of blankets confirm it. They're piled high enough to conceal the identity of the patient underneath, but I'd know those auburn waves anywhere.

I step closer, closer. And then stop when I see her face.

My hand flies to my mouth.

It is Jordan, but not the Jordan I'm used to. This Jordan is deathly pale, with two purple-speckled eyes and a bandage dotted with blood taped beneath her hairline. A clear tube protrudes from her cracked lips and connects to a machine next to the bed, something I'd overlooked when I first came in.

Smith said Jordan was going to be okay, but she doesn't look okay. She looks anything but.

Panic bubbles in my chest. I shouldn't be here, not with her so...broken. But when I turn to leave, someone's standing in my way.

The nurse who almost slammed into me in the hall blocks the doorway. Her eyes are narrowed, mouth spread in a rigid line.

"You can't be in here. Who are you?" It sounds less like a question, and more like an accusation.

I open my mouth to respond, to tell her about the flowers and my good intentions, but she cuts me off with a scream. "Someone call security!"