Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(69)

“I’ll be over there.”

Connor nods. “Okay.”

Tim and Garrett come back in and Garrett tells his players that Aaron probably won’t be out of the OR for hours—that they should head home and he’ll update them.

“We want to stay, Coach D,” one of the captains says. “If it’s all right with you.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, Taylor.”

“Do you guys need anything?” another captain, who’s tall with massively broad shoulders for a teenager, asks. “Coffee? We could make a White Castle run if anyone’s hungry.”

I smile softly . . . because these are good kids.

Garrett checks with all of us, but everyone declines—too worried to eat.

The waiting room is quiet for several minutes after that. But a little before 10 p.m., the air changes—when Stacey-formerly-Daniels walks in.

The tension between her and Connor isn’t a secret to the people in this room. She’s visibly agitated, frazzled—but still more beautiful than I’d pictured her. I don’t know why that surprises me.

And the boys look like her. Up until now, I’ve only seen Connor in them, but the resemblance to their mother is there.

Her onyx eyes scan the room, finding Connor and glaring like he somehow caused Aaron’s accident.

Her hands are clenched when she walks up to him.

“Where is he?”

“He’s in surgery.”

“I want to see him. Right now.”

“You can’t.”

“Don’t give me that shit again!” she raises her voice, pointing her finger. “You’ve been trying to turn them against me for months.”

“I’ve been trying to turn them against you?” Connor stands, his mouth twisting. “You don’t need my help with that—you’ve been doing a bang-up job of that all by yourself.”

“Fuck you!”

He turns sharply on his heel, and walks out the doors with Stacey stomping after him.

Spencer watches them and his expression makes me remember lying in my bed, late at night, hiding under the blankets and covering my ears because my parents were screaming at each other in the living room—and it was awful.

“It’s all right; they’re just upset.” I put an arm around his shoulders and the other around Brayden’s. “They’ll calm down after they talk.”

“No. They’re always like this,” Brayden says.

And he doesn’t say it in a petulant, my-parents-are-the-worst, teenager kind of way.

He’s just sad.

“It’s gonna be okay,” I promise.

And I mean it. When this is over I’ll talk to Connor—hell, I’ll talk to Stacey—but I’ll find a way to make the situation better for these boys, I swear.

Through the glass windows, I watch Connor and Stacey argue. I can’t hear them, but I don’t need to. I’ve seen this story play out between the parents of injured children dozens of times in the emergency department. The anger and blame, the cloying fear, the excruciating helplessness.

Stacey’s back is to me, but I can tell the exact moment she asks Connor if Aaron is going to be okay. Because the frustration and resentment drains out of him, sinking his shoulders, making his mouth go slack with heavy words he doesn’t want to say.

“I don’t know, Stacey. I really don’t know.”

They look dazed when they walk back in. Shell-shocked.

Stacey’s arms are crossed over her middle like she’s cold, or like she’s barely holding herself together. Connor sits down beside Brayden, and Stacey comes over to the boys, her tone softening.

“Hey, guys. Are you doing okay?”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Yeah, we’re okay.”

“Do you want to come sit with me and Grandma Joyce?”

Brayden doesn’t look up from the floor. “I’m good here.”

Spencer takes a moment before he answers.

“I think it might be bad luck to change seats while Aaron’s in surgery. I’m gonna stay in this chair until he’s out.”

I can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his endearing innocence. When I look up at Stacey, she’s smiling tenderly at Spencer too.

But then her gaze shifts to me and the smile drops.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Stacey, this is my girlfriend, Violet,” Connor answers. “Violet, this is my ex-wife, Stacey.”

Her gaze drags down over me from head to toe, slow and disapproving.

But I’m a goddamn nurse. I’ve had patients curse me out, throw things. One time a woman tried to stab me with a pen—and I still gave her the best treatment I’m capable of.

Nasty looks have no effect on me.

And the woman is distraught, her child on an operating table—I feel nothing for her but pity.

So I extend the olive branch. “Hi, Stacey. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

She ignores me completely. There goes my faith in the Mediterranean diet.

Stacey shakes her head at Connor. “I can’t believe you.”

“Don’t,” he warns. “Not now.”

She looks back to the boys and forces a smile.

“I’ll be over there if either of you needs me.”