My current number ended in 1186.
For a moment, I could only stare.
All morning, people had apparently been trying to tell me my husband had been injured.
And I had been driving around town buying balloons.
The absurdity of it made me feel sick.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you,” Ortega said.
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m going.”
He started to argue.
I turned toward the door.
That was when I realized I was still holding the balloon ribbons.
I stared up at them.
Gold stars.
Black circles.
One balloon with HAPPY BIRTHDAY! printed across it in giant letters.
They suddenly looked obscene.
I walked back to the table, untangled the ribbons from my wrist, and laid them beside the cake.
Marcus quietly took the ridiculous firefighter trophy from my other hand.
Nobody made a joke.
I left the station without saying goodbye.
The drive to Mercy General should have taken fourteen minutes.
I have no idea how long it actually took.
Every red light felt personal.
Every slow car felt like an attack.
My hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel.
My mind kept replaying the kitchen that morning.
Cole drinking coffee.
Cole checking for his keys.
Cole kissing me.
Please behave today.
Love you.
I suddenly hated how casually I had answered him.
As though there would always be another morning.
Another goodbye.
Another chance to say it better.
At the hospital, I parked badly enough that one tire was almost touching the painted line.
I ran through the emergency entrance and rushed to the front desk.
“My husband is a firefighter. Cole Barrett. Cedar Ridge Fire Department.”
The nurse typed something.
Then looked up.
“He’s been moved upstairs.”
“Is that good?”
She softened immediately.
“Yes. He’s stable.”
Stable.
I nearly cried over one word.
A hospital employee led me through two corridors and into an elevator.
When the doors opened, I saw a firefighter sitting outside a room.
He recognized me and stood.
“Meg.”
I barely acknowledged him.
I went straight inside.
And there he was.
Cole.
Alive.
That was the first thing I registered.
Not the bandages.
Not the bruising.
Not the sling holding his right arm against his chest.
Not the purple swelling beginning beneath one eye.
Alive.
His eyes opened when I entered.
For a second, we simply stared at each other.
Then he gave me the smallest smile.
“Hey, trouble.”
Something inside me snapped.
“You are unbelievable.”
His smile faded slightly.
“That bad, huh?”
I walked to his bed.
“You went to work this morning.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“You kissed me goodbye like it was a normal day.”
His expression softened.
“It was a normal day when I left.”
“And now you look like you lost a fight with a building.”
“That’s… surprisingly accurate.”
I stared at him.
Then I started crying.
Not graceful tears.
Not movie tears.
