Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“She’s going to be okay,” I say as soothingly as I can.
Ashton gives me a sideways look. His voice is tense. “We don’t know that.”
“Don’t EMTs have EpiPens? That’s what she needs.”
He clenches his teeth. “She asked me to go with her. Maybe if I had, her life wouldn’t be in danger right now.”
“That makes no sense.”
In reply, he checks his phone and frowns. I sneak a peek at his screen and see him texting his dad.
You there yet?
No reply comes for a few silent minutes, so Ashton makes a call, but no one picks up.
“Call the hospital,” I suggest. “They should be able to say if she was admitted.”
“Thanks.” He looks up the number and calls it. After a terse conversation, he hangs up with a curse.
“They said it could take up to an hour to triage her, then half an hour to register and admit. And who knows how soon after that she’ll actually see a doctor.”
“We might get there before that,” I say.
He frantically taps at his phone, then nods. “The flight is an hour and ten minutes. The cab ride from BOS to BMC is fifteen minutes without traffic.”
“Call your dad again.”
Ashton does, then tries his mom—to no avail.
By the time he finally gets through, we have reached our destination, so Ashton tosses a bunch of money at the cab driver and stays on the phone as we rush through security.
“Did you hear that?” I ask him when an announcer mumbles something along the lines of, “Last call for Boston flight.”
Nodding, Ashton grabs my hand and launches into a sprint.
Panting, I do my best to keep up, and we just barely make it before the gate closes.
“So? What did you learn?” I ask once we’re in our seats and I’ve caught my breath. I’m still sweaty from the mad dash, though, and more than a little annoyed that Ashton looks as cool as if he’s been lounging on the couch instead of sprinting at full speed through half the airport.
I guess being in crazy good shape pays off in all kinds of situations.
“She did get epinephrin,” Ashton says. “But she’s still pretty swollen. They’re waiting for her to get admitted.”
“Ah.” I buckle myself in.
Ashton hides his phone and sits in tense silence as the plane takes off.
Why is he not talking? Is it worry about his sister, or is he still mad at me?
I wrack my brain for something to ease the tension, but the best I can come up with is a suggestion to order some food.
“Right,” he says. “We never ate that sushi.”
I order the overpriced turkey and Swiss sandwich, while he gets the chicken Caesar wrap.
We eat in silence. My sandwich tastes like paint chips, and I’m not sure if that’s because of the lower air pressure, the airline’s crap sandwich-making skills, or the fact that Ashton is still visibly upset—for which I can probably take most of the blame.
“Hey,” I say when the meal is over. “Can we talk about that whole Ash misunderstanding?”
His frown deepens. “Not now. Please.”
“Right. Makes sense.” And it sucks ass, but I can’t exactly make him talk. And maybe he’s right not to want to hash out things now. He might be too worried about Jordan to talk calmly and rationally.
Still, in my head, I play out the possible conversations that we might have, and they only end up making me feel worse about the whole thing.
As soon as we land, it’s full speed ahead again. Talking on his phone with one hand and grasping my hand in the other, he pulls me through the crowds of passengers. His touch, though hurried and careless, grounds me. He only releases me once we’re settled into another cab.
“What did they say?” I ask after Ashton offers the current cab driver the same deal he made with the one in NYC.
“She just got admitted,” he says. “Waiting for a doctor.”
“I see.”
The rest of the ride happens in more silence, but at least it’s blissfully quick.
When we get to the emergency room, three people jump from their seats and approach us: two older adults who are likely Ashton’s parents and an attractive woman about my age. All three of them are dressed in that understated yet posh way that all but screams “old money.”
When Ashton spots the younger woman, he halts in his tracks, and his expression darkens—an impressive feat, given his mood on the way here.
“Gwyneth,” he says in a voice so icy it makes the way he’s been talking to me during this trip seem warm and fuzzy. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
The older woman who’s most likely his mother clutches her pearls, literally. “Is such vulgar language necessary?”
Ashton’s reply sounds like a low growl, and Gwyneth takes a step back before saying in a breathy voice, “I happen to know Jordan. We took Intro to Computer Science together. And Intro to C++.”