The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(47)

While I was watching him last night, he began thrashing about. His movements continued for several heart-stopping minutes, and when the nurse finally came after I paged her, she checked his vitals and inspected him only to determine he had to relieve himself. She kindly explained to him that he couldn’t get up to use the toilet and encouraged him to go in his bed, but he fought and he fought. He fought until his body finally won, and then he cried like he was broken, turning his face into his pillow.

I want a reprieve from these thoughts so badly that I consider turning music on, but the radio’s been broken since forever, just like the air-conditioning, and the same tape has been stuck in the cassette player for decades—Teresa Cheung’s Greatest Hits. When I was a kid, I asked my dad why he didn’t get it fixed, and he said why waste money on repairs when it was playing exactly what he wanted to listen to.

If I listen to that tape right now, it’ll destroy me, so I resort to the distraction provided by my phone. I’m pleasantly surprised to see messages from Quan:


Accidentally stepped on a snail while running today and I thought of you




Not because you’re slow and slimy




(you’re not)




It reminded me of octopuses




Anyway, I know there’s a lot going on, but I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you



His messages make me smile for the first time today, but before I reply to him, I need to text Jennifer first.

My dad is in the hospital, so I won’t be able to make it to therapy anytime soon, I tell her. It’s a relief—I can’t say I enjoy therapy— but I also recognize that canceling our sessions might not be the healthiest thing for me, especially now.

She responds right away, leading me to think she’s put someone’s therapy session on hold just for me. I’m so sorry to hear this. I’m here if you need me, and please check in when you can so I know you’re okay.

Thank you. I’ll try, I say, and she “likes” the message so I know she’s seen it.

As I’m switching back to Quan’s message screen, I get a new text message, but it’s not from him or Jennifer. It’s from Julian.


Hey, my mom heard about your dad and told me. Is it okay if we come visit tomorrow?



My heart jerks and starts thumping painfully. I don’t want to see Julian, and I definitely don’t want to deal with his mom. I’m barely keeping it together as it is.

Thank you, but can you tell your mom that tomorrow’s not a good time? My dad’s going to have a procedure done soon, and we’re looking into moving him home. If she really wants to visit, a couple weeks later is better, I say.

That’s great that he’s coming home! I’ll tell my mom, he says.

Yes, we’re all very relieved, I reply.

Dots dance on the screen, stop, like he deleted what he typed, and start dancing again. A minute later, I get a new text from him. I’ve missed you, Anna.

I roll my eyes. Sure he has.

I mean it, he insists.

I can’t bring myself to say I’ve missed him as well (that would be a lie), so I reply, Thanks. As soon as the message is marked as read, I grimace. That wasn’t the nicest response I could have given, but I just don’t have the energy to be what he wants right now.

Let’s talk more, okay? I’m here for you, he says.

I exit the text window without replying and put my phone on the center console. I don’t want him to be here for me.

Someone else is much better at it than he is.





TWENTY-TWO





Quan

ANNA’S PARENTS’ HOUSE IS SMACK IN THE MIDDLE OF PALO Alto, not too far from my mom’s place in EPA (East Palo Alto), fifteen minutes tops, but it’s a world away from the place where I grew up. The front yards are well lit and don’t double as junkyards. There are no chain-link fences. The landscaping is immaculately manicured. Everyone has solar panels. As for the homes themselves, each one could grace the cover of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, especially Anna’s parents’. There’s a two-story main house up front and a separate guest house in back. They’re Mediterranean style with cream stucco and orange tiled roofs, very California.

The driveway is empty, but I pull up next to the curb. The driveway doesn’t feel like it’s for me.

Just parked outside, I tell Anna in a text message.

It’s stupid, but I’m nervous. It’s been forever since I last saw her (two whole weeks), and I have this irrational worry that things be tween us have changed for the worse during that time, even though we’ve been texting and talking.

I don’t get a reply from her, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I debate walking up to the front door and ringing the doorbell. That might wake someone up, though. They’ve broken her dad’s care into eight-hour shifts so there’s always someone watching him throughout the day, but that means there’s always someone sleeping, too.

Before I can text her again, the front door opens and Anna races out in bare feet. Her hair’s up in a messy ponytail and she’s wearing the ugliest sweat suit, but she’s the best thing I’ve seen in a long time.

I get out of my car just in time for her to crash into my arms, and I hold her close and breathe her in.