The Love Series Complete Box Set (191 page)

She returns her attention to the home improvement show on TV, calling out, “Have fun,” just as I slip through the door, balancing a box on my hip

He’s waiting for me on the front steps, his back facing the entrance. I steal up behind him, and wrap my free arm around his waist. He turns in my arms and greets me with a quick kiss. “Hey, you all ready?”

“Yeah, let’s do this.”

“What’s in the box?” Dylan asks as I drop it into the back seat.

My eyes rove over him from head to toe, as I scratch my chin. “Nah, you don’t look a thing like Brad Pitt.” I make a lame-ass reference to his “what’s in the box?” question and he rolls his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

As we get into his car, he waves at Mrs. Keating who’s peaking at us through a partially opened curtain. “Do you think we intrigue or confuse her?” Dylan asks as we pull away from the building.

“Eh, she’s harmless. Based on the look that was just on her face, I’d say she’s definitely not disgusted.”

By the time we get to the little league field, the boys are already out on the field, running their laps. I pull the box out of the back seat and Dylan unloads the equipment from the trunk. The boys race over to help us. “Coach Michelson! You’re back,” Brett calls out excitedly.

“Yep.” The rest of the boys pipe down as I begin to speak. “Sorry about last week, guys. Something came up at work,” on the word “work” I shoot Dylan a pained look, hoping he knows exactly what I’m getting at. “But I promise no matter what goes on at work, from here on out, I won’t miss a practice or a game. In fact,” I drop the box at my feet and kneel before it, “I got you these to show you just how committed I am to this team.”

Reaching into the box, the boys look on with rapt attention. I pull out a bright orange and black jersey with the word “Tigers” emblazoned across the chest. Holding it up against my chest, it looks tiny—the perfect reminder of just how meaningful this all is. I turn the jersey around to show them the back. “Cool!” Brett calls out. “That one’s mine!” He scrambles to the front of the small crowd and grabs the jersey from my hand. “It’s got my name on it and everything.” The way Brett looks down at the piece of clothing in his hand can only be described as a look of pure and utter appreciation. He inspects it, checking over every fiber of the fabric, every stitch holding it together. A gigantic smile lights up Brett’s face as he puts on the jersey.

“Here you go!” I call out the names from the shirts, tossing them at their rightful owner, each greeted with a smile as bright as Brett’s.

“Now that’s what a winning team looks like.” Dylan’s approval is full of pride, as he stands there with his arms crossed, scanning over his team. “All right, you guys know the drill, warm ups then batting. Hop to it!” With more bounce than they had when we arrived, the boys sprint across the field.

“Thanks for that.” Dylan nudges me in arm—a simple sign of affection that goes straight to my heart.

“Of course.” I nudge him back. “Besides, I did it for them.”

I’ll go ahead and chalk it up to Dylan’s newfound willingness to give us a chance, but this practice feels all kinds of different from the last one. An air of ease and comfort makes the time pass even more quickly than it did last time. Catching on to mine and Dylan’s little streak of competitiveness, the boys challenge us to compete in a little homerun derby for the last ten minutes of practice. Even with his bum shoulder, I’m impressed with Dylan’s ability to easily lift the ball and send it skyrocketing out of the park. Watching him smile, hearing his laughter, seeing his kindness in action—my heart soars just as high at the ball he’s just hit.

When the bus pulls in to pick the boys up, they actually moan in protest. Dylan huddles them up for one last pep-talk. “Okay, now remember our last game of the season is on Wednesday. Are you guys excited?” Loud and raucous screams fill my ears as the boys show just how excited they are.

“You’ll be there, right, Coach Michelson?” Brett’s more than hopeful face shines brightly as he looks up at me.

“No chance I’d miss it.” I ruffle a hand through his hair and he falls in line with the rest of the boys to board the bus.

Five minutes later, we have the rest of the gear packed up and we’re pulling away from the field. Dylan’s hand moves from the steering wheel, reaches across the center console, and pulls mine from my lap. He rests our locked-together hands on my leg. It’s simple act—one I’m sure many people do rather subconsciously, holding the hand of the person they’re dating.

But with Dylan, I know it means more. It’s a chance he’s never been willing to take. I pull our joined hands up to my lips and plant a kiss there. “Thank you,” I say against his skin.

He pulls a confused face. “For?”

“Taking a chance on me.”

His face softens and the confused look morphs to one of deep-rooted emotion. “I’m the thankful one.”

We stop a deli on the way back to my apartment to grab lunch. It’s a nice causal afternoon, one that a few years ago, I would have thought was fairly mundane. But something about carrying a bag of sandwiches and chips into my home, to share a meal with a man who’s coming to mean a lot to me and my only remaining family, hits a chord.

As we walk through the door, something immediately strikes me as wrong. There’s an odd and cold silence in the space—there’s no music blasting or TV playing. There’s no life.

“Rach!” Her name echoes in the living room, but there’s no response. “Rach!” I call again, dropping the bag on the counter.

“Everything okay?” Dylan asks, closing the door behind us. “Maybe she just went out?” he suggests as I poke my head into the kitchen. “Did she have to go to the gym for anything?”

“No, the new guy, Peter, is working today. She’s been training him all week.” My keys skitter across the counter. “She said she’d be here all day.”

Crazy thoughts race through my head. Did Caleb find her? Should we have moved more than a few hundred miles away? By the time I make it to her room, I’ve worked myself up into a full-blown panic.

The door to her room bounces off the wall with the force of my arm shoving it open. My eyes dart all over her room—her closet, the vanity, and then her bed. When I look down at the floor next to her bed, the sight of her legs, bent at awkward angles makes my stomach sink.

I’m at her side in an instant, cradling her limp body in my arms. “Dylan! Call 9–1-1. Now!” My hands and eyes scan her body for any sign of attack and they can’t find anything. “What happened? Rachel, please wake up.” Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are black, wide in dilation.

Dylan races in with the phone pressed up against his ear. “Yes, she’s breathing.” He switches ears, reaching down for her wrist. “Pulse? Uh, yeah, but it’s weak.”

Gently, I rock her in my arms, comb my fingers through her hair, and offer up my silent prayers that she’ll be okay.

Within minutes, the ambulance is pulling up to a screeching stop in front of the building. Dylan sprints down to them, making sure they don’t waste a second of Rachel’s time. The medics rush the apartment. The loud clanking of the gurney is jarring and brings the harsh reality that something is really wrong to the foreground. They call out numbers and stats. Some of them make sense to me, while most are just a barrage of words that all mean one thing—she’s not doing well. Her blood pressure is low. She’s not reactive. Her pulse is weak and her staggered breathing is getting worse by the second. Watching them intubate her right here on her bedroom floor guts me in a way I hadn’t thought possible.

With Rachel tightly secured to the gurney, the medical team races out of the apartment with even more speed and ferocity than they had when they entered it.

Dylan and I follow them down the stairs and out to the street. After they have her all loaded and I’m ready to jump in the back with her, a female EMT stops me. “She’s not stable enough. You’ll have to meet us there.” She slaps an arm across my chest, pushing me out of the way.

Rage boils over. “No!” I say definitively. “I’m going with her.” I point a hard finger at my sister’s limp body. The EMT looks over my shoulder and nods. Then she turns around and slams the door in my face.

“Let’s go.” Dylan grabs my arm, pulling me toward his car. The ride is nothing more than five minutes of frustrated and scared silence. I don’t dare voice my concerns and Dylan keeps his quiet as well. The car is barely stopped before I jump out and hurry into the emergency room. “I’m here for Rachel Michelson. She was just brought it.” No matter how hard I try to remain calm, even I can hear the panic in my voice.

Dylan hears it, too. He pulls my hand into his, alternating between tightening his grip and stroking his thumb over my wrist softly. All I can offer him is a sad, resigned look. The receptionist tells us to take a seat in the waiting room, letting us know she’ll send the doctor out as soon as she can.

My leg bounces in wild nervousness. Dylan’s calming hand on my knee helps me stop occasionally, but I feel like a caged animal. Resting my elbows on my legs, I hang my head in my hands. “She has to be okay,” I mumble over and over again.

His hand shifts from my leg to my back. The circles he rubs there do nothing to abate my worry. “She will, Con. She will.” Dylan sounds about as confident as I do.

“I don’t know what I’ll do. She’s all I have.” The thought of losing her constricts my throat, making breathing nearly impossible. My eyes burn, but I hold my tears in check. She was so strong for me when I needed her. I’ll be damned if I’ll be anything less for her.

“Conner Michelson?” A middle-aged man wearing scrubs calls from the trauma room doors. I shoot up out of my seat and Dylan follows at my side.

“What happened? How is she? Is she going to be okay?” All my questions fall from my mouth at the same time. The doctor moves us to a small room to the side of the triage station.

“I’m Dr. Young.” He extends a hand and we shake. He opens a file and pulls out some paperwork. “We ran some initial tests and we can’t find anything conclusive right this minute. She’s critical, but stable. Has she suffered any injuries lately? Or is there any medical history that we should be aware of?” He rambles off a list of yes or no questions, asking of possible diseases and past surgeries.

When he asks about headaches, a ball of fear settles in the pit of my stomach. “Yes, migraines. She has a bad history of migraines.” He scribbles down a few notes, slides a consent form in front of me. “We’re going to run some tests, a CT scan and MRI. As soon as I know anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Is she going to be okay?” My words bounce off his back as he rushes out of the room. Stopping and turning on his heel, he looks back at me with a look of uncertainty in his grey eyes.

“I’ll try my best to make sure she is,” he assures us and then leaves.

In the small confines of that room, I lose all sense of composure I thought I had. My shoulders heave as sobs creep over my body. “This can’t be happening. After all we’ve been through, I can’t lose her.”

Dylan pulls me to his side, tucking me against his chest. “It’ll be okay,” he says it over and over again as if repeating himself will somehow make it true.

“Can I get you anything?” Dylan asks when I look at him.

I shake my head. “No. Just being here with me is enough.” He pulls me in closer to him and lets me calm down before we get up and walk back out to the waiting room.

Within fifteen minutes, a nurse calls my name from the main doors of the emergency room. Dylan and I stand before her, waiting on pins and needles. Since it’s a nurse and not Dr. Young, I feel somewhat confident that Rachel is still okay.

“You can come back and see her before we have to prep her for surgery and then I need you to fill out some paperwork.” Dylan falls in step behind me and the nurse spins around. “Sorry, immediate family only.”

Though I open my mouth to protest, nothing comes out. Dylan speaks when I can’t. “It’s okay. I’ll be out here for you when you’re done.”

Once we’re behind the doors, the sounds and smells of the hospital serve as some kind of cruel time machine. My own head injuries landed me in rehab, and even long after I was healed, the sounds haunted my dreams. The nurse brings me into a room not unlike the one I was just in out front with Dr. Young. He’s already sitting at a small table, filling out more papers.

“The CT scan revealed a small blockage at the base of her skull. Is that where she would complain of her migraine pain?” His pen is poised in the air, waiting for my response.

“Uh, I think so.” Suddenly, I’m incapable of remembering what she would complain about. I just knew enough to take care of her, shut the lights, keep everything quiet, make her coffee in the morning, and only ask questions that needed a one or two finger response.

“That’s fine if you don’t remember.” He pulls what looks like an x-ray out of a folder; though instead of it being a broken bone, it’s my sister’s brain. Dr. Young points out a few things, most importantly, the small but unmistakable blockage. “You’re lucky you found her when you did. The possibility that she had a small stroke at some point today is still there, but with this surgery, we should be able to shrink or even possibly remove the blockage.”