Book Lovers(84)

“She’s in there. If they’re not out in five minutes, I’ll find someone to talk to, okay?” he says gently. “Just give them five minutes.”

Within twenty seconds I’m pacing. My chest hurts. My eyes burn, but no tears come.

Charlie grabs me, pulls me in around his chest, and wraps a hand around the back of my head. I feel small, vulnerable, helpless in a way I haven’t for years.

Even before Mom died, I wasn’t much of a crier. But when Libby and I were kids and I was upset, there was nothing that could make me tear up faster than having Mom’s arms wrapped around me. Because then—and only then—I knew it was safe to come apart.

My sweet girl, she’d coo. That’s what she always called me.

She never did the You’re okay, don’t cry thing. Always My sweet girl. Let it out.

At her funeral, I remember tears glossing my eyes, the pinprick sensation at the back of my nose, and then, beside me, the sound of Libby breaking, descending into sobs.

I remember catching myself holding my breath, like I was waiting.

And then I realized I was waiting.

For her.

For Mom to put her arms around us.

Libby was crumbling, and Mom wasn’t coming.

It was like a collapsed sandcastle leapt back into place inside me, rearranging my heart into something passably sturdy. I wrapped my arms around my sister and tried to whisper, Let it out. I couldn’t get the words past my lips.

So instead I dropped my mouth beside Libby’s ear and whispered, “Hey.”

She gave a stuttering breath, like, What?

“If Mom had known how hot the reverend here is,” I said, “she probably would’ve made it down here sooner.”

Libby’s saucer eyes looked up at me, glazed with tears, and my chest felt like a can being crushed until she let out a scratchy jolt of laughter loud enough that Hot Reverend stumbled over his next few words.

She lay her head on my shoulder, turned her face into my jacket, and shook her head. “That is so fucked up,” she said, but she was shaking with teary laughter.

For that second, she was okay. Now, though, when she really needs me, I’m useless.

“Why couldn’t we be in the room for tests?” I get out.

Charlie inhales, shifting between his feet. “Maybe they think you’ll give her the answers.”

There is absolutely no conviction in his joke. When I draw back, I realize he’s not doing so hot himself.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Just don’t like hospitals,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

He takes my hands, holds them between our chests. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“I can handle it.”

His mouth shrinks, the crease beneath it deepening. “I know. I want to be here.”

A group of nurses pass with a gurney, and an ashen cast seeps onto Charlie’s face.

I scrounge around for something to say, anything else to think about. “Sharon called me.”

His lips press into a knot.

“She told me you put me up for a job.”

After a beat, he murmurs, “If I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that.” My face prickles. “It’s just . . . what if I’m bad at it?”

His hands skim up my arms until he’s cradling my jaw. “Impossible.”

My brow arches of its own volition. “Because I helped edit one book?”

He shakes his head. “Because you’re smart and intuitive. And good at getting the best writing out of people, and you put the work before your ego. You know when to push and when to let something go. You’re trustworthy—partly because you’re so bad at lying—and you take care of the things that matter to you.

“If I had to pick one person to be in my corner, it’d be you. Every time. You take care of shit.”

With a sharp throb in my chest, my gaze falls to the floor. “Not always.”

“Hey.” Charlie’s rough fingers come back to mine. He lifts my hand, brushing his mouth over my knuckles. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong and do everything we can to fix it.”

“That fucking list.” My chest is too tight to let anything out but a whisper. “She’s been doing too much. I shouldn’t have let her. We slept out in the heat and—we’ve been working on this fundraiser. She should’ve been resting.”

Charlie sits, drawing me into his lap, every thought of discretion, of avoiding complication gone in an instant. I need him, and he’s here, I realize. Fully, not with caveats or stipulations. His hand slides up the back of my neck, tucked beneath my hair, and I’m wrapped up in him like he’s my personal stone fortress. Like even if I came apart, nothing could get to me.

“Libby makes Libby’s decisions,” he says. “Imagine how you’d react if someone tried to stop you from doing what you want, Stephens.” A hint of a smile tugs at his pout. “Actually, don’t imagine it. It’s inappropriate to get turned on in a hospital.”

I laugh weakly into his chest, another knot unwinding in my own. “I missed something. I’m here with her, and Brendan isn’t, and—” My voice catches. The rest tumbles out painfully: “It’s my job to watch out for her.”