Opposite of Always(28)

She wipes her eyes. “Call me Regina.”

“I’d better stick with Mrs. Edwards. My mom would kill me if she heard me call you Regina.”

Her laughter sounds like she’s underwater. “Fair enough, Jack.”

“Kate’s going to be okay, right?”

Mrs. Edwards shakes her head. “We don’t know much yet. She’s not . . . God . . .”

Without thinking I hug her again, her body a sputter of mini convulsions. After a moment, I turn toward the curtain.

“Go ahead,” she says.

I step around the curtain slowly. There are pumps swishing, lights blinking, machines humming. And at the center of it all, Kate.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi,” she says. She winces, like it hurts to talk. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

I walk over to the foot of the bed. “I don’t and I do.”

“You look good,” she says.

“You too,” I say.

“Liar.”

But I’m not lying.

She motions for me to come closer. “I won’t bite,” she says. “Not this time, anyway.” She tries to smile, but grimaces.

I step closer, navigating the stream of cords running along the floor.

“Are you okay?” I ask. A stupid question. I could make a living raising and selling all-organic, free-range stupid questions.

She wince-laughs. “Oh, I’m great. This hospital just has the best chocolate shakes, so I decided to check in.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not.” She bites her lip. “I’m glad you came.”

Mrs. Edwards clears her throat. “I’m just going to . . . coffee . . . at the cafeteria. Can I get anyone anything?” I’d forgotten she was there.

“I’m good, thanks, Mom,” Kate says.

“Me too,” I say.

Mrs. Edwards nods, squeezes Kate’s feet. “I’ll be right back,” she says. She walks into the hall, the nurse calling after her. The nurse speaks quietly but animatedly. Kate’s mom does a lot of nodding, and then they hug.

“I’m sorry about prom, Jack.”

“Looks like you had a pretty good reason,” I say. “And if you’re going to be sorry about anything, let it be that you didn’t just tell me the truth.”

“‘I’m genetically unwell’ is a turnoff to most people.”

Genetically unwell? What does that even mean? A wheel of possibilities spins in my brain.

“Good thing my name isn’t Most People then. So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“Yes.” Kate nods. But then she shakes her head. “No, actually.”

“Kate.”

“I owe you an explanation, I know. And I promise it’s coming, but not right now. Right now all I want is to enjoy a moment with you where I’m not the sick girl. Where you look at me the way you did when I wasn’t wearing oxygen. Like when we first met. When we sat in a random kitchen and shared cereal.”

I start to protest, because of course I want to know what’s wrong, why Kate’s in the hospital, but I want her to be happy more. I want her to feel safe with me. The way she makes me feel safe.

“Okay, not right now,” I say. “But later.”

“Later, I promise,” she says. Her face brighter, like a bulb’s been replaced in her eyes.

“So.” I hold up a plastic grocery bag. “I know it’s not exactly Froot Loops, but I come bearing gifts.”

“My hero!”

“It’s just leftovers from the party.”

“Oh my God! Your parents’ party! Damn. I feel awful. You should be with your family. Not here.”

“Don’t feel awful. The party’s over, anyway.” I rifle through the bag. “Nothing too fancy. Some modestly tasty sweet-potato casserole. And, uh, spinach lasagna. I hope you don’t mind it’s a middle piece. It’s pretty good, but I’m not sure about the cheese blend, so, yeah. Oh, and some fairly awesome anniversary cake. Which, you know, pairs perfectly with chocolate hospital shake.”

“Oh, Jack. You are scoring lots of points right now, kid.”

“It’s an end piece, too.”

She claps her hands together. “You brought me an end piece? Extra icing?”

“Extra icing,” I say. “You think I’d show up if I didn’t have extra icing for you?”

We sit there, silent. Not because we don’t have anything to talk about. Because we have everything to talk about.

Kate tries to smile, tries to discreetly brush away the tears pooling between her nose and eyes. “Talk about terrible timing. Gosh, I’m such a loser. Your parents’ special day, you shouldn’t be stuck here.”

“I’m not stuck.” I lift my feet off the ground, one at a time, high enough for her to see over the bed rail. “My feet work fine. See?” I spin in a small circle.

“Well, whaddya know? They do.”

I set a folding chair beside her bed. “So, what do you want to talk about? The upcoming election? FEMA? Should I tell you a story?”

“No. No. And depends. What kind of story?”