The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(98)

He nods, then winces. “I’m fine. I guess I’ll need stitches,” he says. “And I’ll be pretty sore tomorrow.” He looks at me seriously. “You sure you’re all right, Lucy? Your hand is ice-cold.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. I’m fine, he’s fine, everyone’s fine.

“What about Nicky? Did he see me get hit?” Ethan asks.

“I think so,” I repeat, not wanting to tell him that I stood there like a lamppost and watched his son scream. That as half the town rushed to his side, I remained rooted where I was, watching him bleed on the asphalt. That I fainted when he needed me the most.

“Damn it,” Ethan mutters. “Can you make sure he knows I’m okay? He must’ve been so scared.” I nod, and Ethan again looks into my eyes. “Your mom said you fainted,” he says, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand.

“Ethan, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my eyes filling.

“Oh, honey, don’t say that,” he says, pulling me in for an awkward hug. “Don’t cry.”

I nod and swallow, and swallow again.

An orderly or tech comes in, and I pull back from Ethan and stand on my unsteady legs. She unclicks a few things on Ethan’s gurney. “Going for a little ride, my friend,” she chirrups. “You’re the one hit by the giant clam, right?”

“Police car,” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow mischievously. “Imagine the lawsuit.”

“Yes, indeedy,” the tech agrees. “Okay, big guy. Off we go. Wife, you can stay here or go into the waiting room with everyone else, okay? Back in a bit.”

I float down the hall, my mind numb, to the waiting room. There are the Mirabellis, Gianni’s heavy arm around Marie’s plump shoulders, Marie’s mascara smeared from crying. Mom perches on the arm of Gianni’s chair, patting his back. Parker holds Nicky on her lap, and he’s hiccupping, thumb in his mouth, though he gave that up last year. Christopher and Corinne are there, too, Emma asleep on Chris’s shoulder. Everyone falls silent at the sight of me.

“He seems fine,” I report in a squeaky voice. “They’re doing a CAT scan just to make sure, but he’s awake, talking, all that. He’s sorry he scared everyone.” I crouch down in front of Nicky and stroke his head with a shaking hand. “Daddy’s fine, honey. He has a cut on his head, but he’s okay.”

Nicky buries his face against Parker’s neck. “Did you hear that, sweetie?” Parker murmurs, kissing her boy. “Daddy’s fine. I bet we can go see him when he’s cleaned up a little.”

She’s right. Forty-five minutes later, Ethan has been cleared by the radiologist, and a PA has put seven stitches in his head, who declares this “a beautiful concussion.” Ethan kisses his son repeatedly, is hugged by his mother, watches his father wipe tears from his eyes and reassures everyone that he’s fine.

“Why did Stuffie fall on you, Daddy?” Nicky asks, pressing a button. Ethan’s bed rises a few inches.

“Stuffie and I have never gotten along,” Ethan says. “He’s a big meanie.”

Nicky giggles. “Maybe Mommy can put you in a book.”

“The Holy Rollers and Stuffie the Big Meanie,” Parker says. “I love it.” Ethan smiles at her, then kisses Nicky again.

I observe the whole scene as if I’m floating above it, oddly detached. My heart stutters and races, and my throat is so tight I’m surprised I can breathe, but outwardly, I’m calm.

A nurse pops her head into the exam room after about a half hour. “As soon as the doctor signs your discharge papers, you can go home, Mr. Mirabelli.”

“We’ll wait for you outside, son,” Gianni says. He grips Ethan’s shoulder briefly.

“Thanks, Dad,” Ethan replies.

“Come on, Nicky. We’ll see Daddy tomorrow,” Parker says. She leans down and kisses Ethan’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re okay, idiot,” she murmurs. “Next time, look both ways when you cross the street.”

“That’s right. Blame the victim.” Ethan grins. “Good night, Nick the Tick,” he says, hugging his son. He winces slightly—he’s probably a mass of bruises, let alone the concussion and gash on the head. Hit by a car. My brain leaps away from the image of him tumbling through the air, the dull whump sound his body made when he landed on the street…I choke out another cough, wave to Corinne, Chris and my mother as they make their way out, too.

And then it’s just Ethan and me. I help him button up his bloodied shirt, my fingers shaking as they fumble to get the job done. I can smell the sharp scent of disinfectant, can see where blood has matted his hair.

We don’t speak.

Finally, after what seems like ages, yet another doctor sticks his head into the room. He looks at Ethan’s chart, then does a double-take when he sees me. “Okay, Mr. Mirabelli. Tylenol for your headache, a nice hot shower. You’re gonna feel like you were hit by a car tomorrow.” He smiles at his own joke. “Got someone to stay with you?”

“Yes,” Ethan says.

“All right.” He hands Ethan a copy of instructions. “You’re one lucky bastard,” he says.

“That I am,” Ethan agrees.

The doctor starts to leave, then turns to me. “You’re Jimmy Mirabelli’s widow, aren’t you?”