Shimmy Bang Sparkle(31)
The hospital smelled like an office supply store, and the cheerful paintings everywhere just made it feel very dismal. With Nick’s hand in mine, I hustled across the entry foyer with only one thing in mind: to get to the girls. Coming at us was an old man pushing an old lady in a wheelchair, and I had to let go of Nick’s hand to let him pass. A deflated metallic balloon that was attached to the handle bobbed along at eye level, proclaiming GET WELL SOON! in the least optimistic way possible. But once the couple had passed and I reached out for Nick’s hand again, I found he’d veered off to the gift shop, where he stood in front of a display of bouquets. I watched him consider a mixed bouquet of daises, carnations, and another flower that I didn’t know the name of but always called grocery store flowers in my head. Those he put down in favor of two pretty bouquets of roses, one bouquet pink and the other yellow. He turned to face me with the flowers cradled in one arm, like the winner of a Mr. American Hunk pageant. I knew there was no such thing, but looking at him there it seemed like a really good idea. As in, someone should hurry up and patent it. Today.
“You pick out whatever you’d like too,” he said.
“How am I going to take it with me on the bike?” I asked, sticking my nose into an open stargazer lily. Best smell ever.
When I looked past the crinkly plastic, I saw he was deadpanning me. I kept my nose in the cool petals and asked, “What?”
“Not for today necessarily,” he said, putting a whole lot of delightful emphasis on that last word. “Just for reference.”
I liked his style a lot. “I like them all.”
“You’ve got to have a favorite.”
I did. I never bought them for myself, but I often dawdled around the floral department of Albertsons just to smell them. I touched the very edge of the velvet petal of the stargazer. “Lilies. Just like these.”
“Noted,” he said, and led me toward the register. There, on a small cake platter, was something that I liked even better than lilies and even better than caramel-dipped apples: chocolate-dipped strawberries, with a sign that said FREE SAMPLE. I picked up the nearest one and sank my teeth into it, which made my eyes flutter shut. The strawberry was cool and juicy, and the chocolate was crisp and velvety. It was so amazing I actually put my hand on the counter to brace myself.
“I like the way you roll, Stella,” I heard Nick say softly. I opened my eyes, still with my teeth in the strawberry. His smile was almost a secret smile, like he hadn’t meant for me to see it.
“Do you?” I said into the berry. The tingles he gave me had nothing on dipped fruit, nothing.
He nodded and watched me a little longer. “I really, really do.”
Ruth lay in her hospital bed with her phone laid horizontally on her lap, Netflix-style. When I knocked on the doorframe, she pulled one earbud out and paused her show. On the upside-down screen, I saw Jason Bateman dealing with a cooler full of ice and catfish. She was watching Ozark for roughly the ten thousandth time. When Ruth found a show that she liked, she didn’t just watch it. She lived it and breathed it, dreamed it. She totally immersed herself . . . it was amazing, and also a teeny bit unnerving when she’d dived into Twin Peaks and mastered the Red Room backward talking exactly.
Netflix was her happy place, but she didn’t look happy now. She looked defeated, and her lips began to quiver when she looked at me. Without her even saying a word, I heard all the things she didn’t need to say. I’m sorry about the Jeep. I’m sorry about Roxie. I’m sorry that this will mess up all our plans for the North Star. I’m sorry about everything.
“Don’t,” I told her, grabbing her hand and shaking my head. “Stop that.”
She hung her head. I ran my hand over her corn silk–smooth hair, and she pressed her forehead against my palm. “They towed the Queen of the Jeeps to A1 Autobody,” she said softly. “I think she might be totaled.”
Inside, I cringed. But outside, I didn’t flinch. Cars could be replaced. Best friends could not. “What matters is that you two are OK.” I sat down on her bed and scooted her phone aside. “Are you OK?” I asked, trying not to stare too long at the cast they’d put her in, from ankle to midthigh.
“I will be. But it’ll take a long time. Six to eight weeks they said.”
It put the North Star right out of the picture. At first, I was crestfallen. But I stayed strong for her. I would not let her see that I was disappointed. We would find more jobs. It meant nothing, I told myself as firmly as I could. But I knew it wasn’t true at all. And yet, here we were. “Then that’s six to eight weeks of me fussing over you, making you Satan’s smoothies and using the wrong mug for your tea.”
Though she made a big dramatic thing of shaking her head, I could tell she didn’t mind the idea of that so much at all.
“This is Nick, by the way,” I said, and leaned back. He was standing off to one side, like he was giving us space, but now he stepped forward and held out one of the bouquets to Ruth.
She studied him carefully, and I was a bit surprised to see a smile begin to show on her face. Normally, she didn’t warm up so fast. She looked over at me and back at Nick, and she smiled even more. He put her flowers on the bed and reached out his hand to shake hers. “Nick.”
“Ruth,” she said, her hand almost disappearing in his. “So you’re the guy who kept her out all night?”