Just rise up to my tiptoes and wrap my arms around his neck.
“Uhh. Okay…,” he says.
(This makes me smile.)
Once I release him, I take his hand, then I push Jax’s door open and pull Zan into the room with me.
You’d think I brought in the actual Santa Claus.
“Oh my God!” Jax says, looking from me to Zan and Zan to me. “Oh my God! You brought Z-man?”
Zan smiles, and Jax puts his face in his hands. “This is better than I could’ve dreamed!”
Zan laughs and ruffles Jax’s hair. “I missed you too, little dude,” he says. “You cool with me dropping by every once in a while?”
“Am I ever!”
I smile and pull Jax’s iPad (from Zan) out of my bag and sit it on the rolly tray-table thing. Zan grabs a chair from across the room and sits it right beside Jax’s bed.
“They treatin’ you all right in here, my man?”
Jax’s face falls. “I guess. I’m ready to go home,” he says, “but it’s gonna be another week and a half at least. Trying not to get too depressed about it.”
Zan sneaks a glance at me—I’ve grabbed a blanket and retreated to the couch built into the windowed wall—then turns back to Jax. “Depressed, huh?”
“It’s a real thing, you know? Kid depression. There’s a mind doctor guy who comes in twice a week to make sure I’m not getting too sad.”
I sit up straight. “Does Mama know about this?”
“Mm-hmm,” he says. “She was here last time he came.”
Bothers me a little that I didn’t know. I’m not his mom obviously, but still.
Zan changes the subject. “So what other cool stuff have you learned in here?”
Jax launches into a series of animated explanations: spinal taps, how his IVs work, what strain of bacteria caused his meningitis, which nurse is the “hottest”—he gets some side-eye from me on this one. After a while I tune out and let them talk.
Then Zan’s shaking me awake. “Sorry to bug you,” he says. “He’s out cold. Probably for the night.”
I look over at Jax, then back at Zan. Can’t help but smile—despite the cloud of secrets, lies, and unanswered questions hanging over us. “Thanks for coming, Zan.”
For a few seconds he just stares at me in that way he does that makes me freakin’ nutballs. Especially right now when desire and obligation are occupying the same physical space. Cuz, man, what I wouldn’t do to just escape with him. “You wanna grab a bite to eat?” he says.
Clock: 2:27 a.m.
Brother: freaked the last time he woke up and the person who’d been here was gone. Mama will be here in four and a half hours, and Zan’s probably right about Jax being out for a while, but I’m not sure I wanna risk it.
My hesitation is…obvious.
“We’ll leave him a note with my cell number at the nurses’ station in case he wakes up.”
Mmmm…
He squats and takes my hands. Looks me in the eye. “You need a break, Rico. Hour, hour and a half.”
I sigh.
And nod.
* * *
—
We don’t make it to the Waffle House.
We don’t even make it out of the parking lot.
As soon as we’re both in the Jeep, Zan asks me how I’m doing, and I lose every iota of my shit.
Stuff just comes oozing out: how terrified I was when my brother almost died in my arms; how I feel like everything’s my fault because I didn’t investigate his symptoms; how tired I am from carrying the constant fear that this month, there won’t be enough money; how I went to the Streeters’ and had to leave all hope on their doorstep; how I feel like I’m falling into a black hole and there won’t be any getting out of it.
Zan listens. I can tell he’s got a million and one things going through his mind because he chews his lip and keeps looking down at his wallet. But he doesn’t say a word—even when I get to the Ethel part—and I’m thankful. Just holds my hand and rubs circles on my palm. Drapes an arm across my shoulders and draws me in to him. The more I cry, the closer we get until I’m curled in his khaki’d lap like a toddler, sobbing into the neck of his perfectly pressed polo.
“Zan?”
“Yeah?”
He’s rubbing my arm up and down. It feels really good. Calming. “Do you ever dress down?”
Silence.
I lift my head so I can see his face.
His jaw is clenched.
“Was that offensive?” I say.
He clears his throat. (Maybe it