want to do stitches all night.”
“It’s not. I was—”
“He was trying to help his brother,” Mallory says, not looking at me.
“Well, that seems noble. I guess I’ll give you the stitches.” She smiles, taps the bed. “Okay, back in a sec.”
Mallory considers my leg again once the doctor has left and says, “Real talk? That’s going to be a badass scar.”
“I’m going to tell people I got attacked by a puma,” I say weakly.
“That’s definitely sexier than saying you got it jumping off a bridge. Or at least less redneck.”
I try to play. I really do. But all I can think about is getting off this table. About getting Jake in my truck and—I have no idea what. But doing something.
“I was kidding about the redneck thing,” she says.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m worried about Jake.” I say. The paper sheet crinkles beneath my body as I shift my weight. “Do you mind going out there to check on him for me?”
She hesitates but then nods. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“You don’t have to baby-sit him or anything.”
“Don’t you think he’s fine? I mean, I’m happy to go out there and look, but he’s twenty-two years old. And your leg—I think you need somebody back here with you.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to yell at Mallory or further ruin whatever we had tonight. But he could be a hundred years old, and it wouldn’t matter. My leg could be in a bucket of ice on the counter, and it wouldn’t matter. That’s not the point. My words are sharp.
“If you want to help me, go out there and check on him. Please.”
She pulls away, her eyes, her body, every word that’s been spoken between us tonight. I regret the way I said it, but she saw him on the bridge, throwing his medals into the river. She has to realize that even something as simple as sitting in a waiting room is enough to warrant concern. He could walk away, could disappear in a puff of smoke. When I don’t say anything else, she stands up without a word and walks out of the room.
When the doctor comes in to stitch up my leg, Mallory still isn’t back. I’ve pissed her off, but I can’t focus on whether she’s mad at me or not, only on Jake. The doctor hums as she works, not saying much beyond the occasional direction to rotate my leg left or right. As the minutes pass, each one turning painfully and slow around the clock above the door, I convince myself that something’s wrong. When a nurse comes into the room and I jump, the doctor tells me to keep still, that she’s almost done. But I barely hear her. I have to get out of this room. I have to find Jake and Mallory.
When the doctor’s finished, the same nurse comes back and tells me about pain—“nothing ibuprofen can’t fix”—and then gives me the pills. I nod and nod and nod, until she hands me a piece of paper and helps me off the bed.
The first step is a killer, and I yelp. But by the time the nurse turns, ready to catch me, I’m already walking as quickly as I can manage.
I push through the heavy doors to the waiting room and don’t see either Jake or Mallory. For a moment my heart stops racing, and I take a deep breath. They’re outside, I tell myself. They’re walking the halls. Jake is being charming, and Mallory is making it seem like she wasn’t sent out to baby-sit him.
I’m halfway across the waiting room when Mallory comes rushing in. I don’t need to see her face to know I was kidding myself. She opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand. I already know.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mallory wants to retrace her steps—to check the cafeteria, the darkened wings of the sleeping hospital—but I limp toward the parking lot. He isn’t getting a late-night snack or haunting the hallways. He’s gone.
“Maybe we should wait near the emergency room,” Mallory says. “Or maybe he’s by the truck?”
I keep stumbling forward. He’s not at the truck. He’s off . . . where? Running through the shadows of our small town. But for what reason? That’s the big question, of course. Why he needs to disappear. Why he can’t just turn himself back on, flip whatever switch got rearranged inside his head.
When we get to the truck and he’s not there, my point proved, I put my