Send Me a Sign(67)

“Is there a message we can give him for you?”

I shook my head. Always. When he’d asked if I wanted him to come, I’d told him always. It hadn’t occurred to me that his answer might not be the same.



After four more days I was discharged and sent home, where Dr. Kevin ordered me to spend three more days resting before I attempted school. I was still borderline neutropenic—I didn’t have enough white blood cells to fight off an infection. There were rules about visitors: one at a time and I had to wear a surgical mask. Not that it mattered. Ryan was the only one who came.

I knew the lack of messages from Lauren was a bad sign. The fact that Hil hadn’t stormed my house demanding explanations was an awful omen. I wouldn’t let myself think about what Gyver’s absence meant.

I wanted numb back. I wanted the hospital drugs that had made it possible to sleep and pretend I wasn’t terrified. Instead, the skin around my eyes and nose were raw from tissues and tears. I sometimes woke up and caught Mom standing in my doorway like she was guarding my sleeping body. Dad was constantly on the phone with doctors and on the Internet. He’d started making charts of experimental treatments and new drugs in development.

“We won’t need them,” he told me. “But I feel better knowing what’s out there.”

Mom hovered now. Fingertips always reaching for my forehead, searching for a fever. She fussed with the thermostat and fretted about germs. Her manic kitchen cleaning surpassed Mrs. Russo’s; she vacuumed my room and changed my sheets daily.

That night apart had changed her—I wasn’t sure if it was our fight or my fever. She didn’t ask questions or intrude on my silence; she gave me so much space it started to feel like a barrier. Stuck in my own thoughts, or in my struggles not to think, I didn’t know how to reach out and give her the reassurance she needed. We revolved around each other in careful orbits.

“Kitten, you have a visitor.” She gave the germ masks a pointed look, patted my arm, and disappeared into the laundry room.

I was filling a glass from the dispenser on the fridge door, wishing I could convince myself it was only the metallic distortion that gave my reflection such an ethereal look.

“Hey.” Gyver’s voice was hesitant and soft. He was leaning against the kitchen door, one hand grasping the opposite elbow, his feet crossed at the ankles. It was a casual pose, but his posture was stiff and he was staring at the tile floor.

“Hi. Water?” I lifted my glass, then fumbled like an idiot putting it on the counter. “Want some?”

“No, I’m good.”

I looked at him, waiting for him to look back. He should wash his hands and I should put on a surgical mask, but those reminders seemed less important than bridging the distance between us.

“Can we?” I pointed to the family room behind him. I wanted to leave the kitchen—Mom would be bustling back in to unload the dishwasher and wipe down counters. He let me lead him through the doorway, then chose a recliner across the room from my spot on the couch. Not a good sign. I pulled my knees up to my chest and hugged them.

“Gyver, at the hospital—” I began.

“Ryan said you wanted to see me,” he interrupted.

“He did?”

“Yeah. If you wanted to see me, you should’ve called.”

“I didn’t ask him to say anything.” I leaned my cheek on my knees. “But I did want to see you. Why haven’t you called or visited? I know the hospital’s a pain, but I’ve been home for days. I miss you. I don’t get what’s going on with us.” I pulled my knees in closer, knotting my fingers in front of my shins.

Gyver shut his eyes and groaned, a hurt-animal sound in the back of his throat. “That makes two of us, Mi. I don’t know what’s going on either.”

“Is this because of what happened at the hospital?”

“We need to talk about that.” He leaned forward and rubbed his face with tired palms.

“It didn’t mean anything.” I could still picture his anger when he’d seen Ryan help button my pajamas.

Gyver flushed, leaned back in the chair, and pressed his hands flat to his knees. “Got it.”

“He’s a good boyfriend.” I wanted to continue, but words felt too heavy.

“Did I come here so you could tell me about The Jock?” His words were cold and slick as marbles. His eyes were scorching a spot on the wall behind my head.

“No, that’s not why I wanted to see you; I wanted to make sure you’re not mad at me.” It hurt I needed a reason to see him, and he had to be asked to come.

“I’m not,” his voice softened to exhaustion.

“Good.” I wasn’t sure I believed him, and I had so much I needed to tell him. “Thanks for coming to check on me that morning, I never got to say that.”

He raked his hair into unruly points. “Mi, I didn’t sleep that night. All I could think was: you were alone and upset. I didn’t want to leave you and I drove like a maniac to get back.” A riptide of accusation tainted his words. “But you weren’t alone.”

“Would you rather I was? That was the worst night of my life. Yeah, Ryan stayed over. So what? Why do you even care?”

My voice was climbing as I clutched my calves and tried to hold myself together. “You’ve got Meagan—you were so quick to run after her when she was upset. Why do you care if Ryan does the same for me?”