Rushed(111)

"Oh . . . great," I muttered, trying not to sound too down. It was of course great news, but Luisa and I both knew what was to come.

Still, the doctor noticed, and he looked up from the chart he'd been scribbling on. "I would’ve expected a more enthusiastic reaction, Mr. Bertoli. You should be back to your normal self before you know it.”

I blinked and put a fake smile on my face. "It's great news, doc—just other things on my mind, that's all."

"I see. Well, you can start putting weight on the foot as long as you keep that brace on. Slowly increase weight as you go, but you'll need to keep your crutches for at least another two or three weeks. After that, we can look at transitioning you to a cane or something. Let me go talk to my assistant, and we'll get you scheduled for your next checkup. Is there anything in your schedule that we need to accommodate?”

"No," I said quietly, "nothing." Nothing except I want you to smack my f*cking leg with a baseball bat so I can have an excuse for Luisa to stay longer, I thought as he left the room. Alone, I looked at her. She kept a brave, calm look on her face. The doctor came back, holding an appointment slip, and that was that.

Walking out, both of us were glum, and the ride back to the mansion was practically silent, with not even the radio playing to break up the depressing atmosphere. We got home and were greeted by Dad, who saw our somber expressions. "Your ankle doing better?"

"Ahead of schedule," I replied, looking down at the offensive limb and cursing it. "Apparently, all the care and attention from Luisa has given me super recuperative powers."

My father nodded and took a deep breath. "I see. Luisa, I’d love to have you stay longer, but your tourist visa will expire soon, and now that my son is semi-mobile . . .”

"I know, Mr. Bertoli," Luisa whispered. “My father expects me home soon. Can you have someone make the arrangements for me?"

"Of course. I spoke with him while you were at the doctor—he’s a little anxious. He wants you to fly out tomorrow." Dad looked at the two of us for a minute, then turned. "We'll have dinner at seven. Adriana and Daniel caught an early flight, so they’ll be joining us."

"Thanks," I said, taking Luisa's hand. "We'll look forward to it."

We went to Luisa's room, where she picked her suitcase up out of the corner where she'd been keeping it and set it on the bed. "If you don’t mind, I think I'll pack," she said quietly. "I need the time to think."

“You don’t want help?” I asked. "I can at least carry some clothes."

She shook her head, looking up at me for the first time in a half-hour. Her eyes were full of pain, and she looked like she was about to cry. "I need this time alone—I'll see you at dinner."

I swallowed and nodded, crutch-walking out to the pool and taking a seat next to the table. I watched the late afternoon sun reflect on the pool, the never repeating but still strangely familiar patterns of the sun against the pool bottom lulling me into at least a half-stupor. I was startled when I heard the screen door to the mansion slide shut, and I looked to see my cousin crossing the pool deck toward me. She looked healthy and happy, and despite the sadness of the day, I was glad to see her. "Hey, Red."

"Hey, Tommy," she said before stopping to correct herself. "Sorry . . . Tomasso."

I shook my head, waving it off. “How're you doing?"

"Better than you are, from the looks of it," she said, taking the chair next to me. "You look like someone just gave you a terminal diagnosis. From what Uncle Carlo said, you should be doing backflips into the deep end of the pool. Or at least doing fist pumps."

I didn't react to her little joke, and she tried again. "You know, I start up my senior year soon. Classes start just after your birthday. Any advice?”

"No," I said, looking back into the pool. "You got everything you need out of college anyways. You've got the skills and you've got the vision. This year is just going to be a breeze for you."

"So she leaves tomorrow?"

"Early flight . . .” I rasped, my voice catching in my throat. I coughed twice, then tried again. "Early flight," I repeated, more clear this time.

Adriana nodded. "And then?"

I shrugged. "What is there to say? She goes back to Brazil, and I go back to work and rehab. We'll swap emails for a while, maybe a video call once in a while, but life will get in the way. She'll miss a call, I'll miss an email, and suddenly, we're realizing that we haven't heard from each other in three or four months, and the pain won't be as bad as we thought it would be. Life goes on."

She looked at me and shook her head. "It doesn't have to be that way. You could tell her how you feel."

“I don’t have to—she knows. She’s committed to her father and her family . . . I can’t ask her to leave that. Besides, her father would never allow it. What can I do?"

"I don't know," Adriana said. "Promise me one thing, though."

"What?"

"Tell her before she leaves, even if you think she already knows. Miracles do happen. I should know."



The next morning, Daniel dropped us off at SeaTac. The skycap came around and took Luisa's bags, and we went to check-in, where she showed her passport and got her e-reservation stamped. "First class, just like your father promised," she whispered as she looked at the boarding pass. "Thank him for me."