Happenstance 3 Read online

  Copyright (c) 2015 by Jamie McGuire

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Designer: Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations, www.okaycreations.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Please visit www.JamieMcGuire.com

  ALSO BY JAMIE MCGUIRE

  Providence (Providence Trilogy: Book One) Requiem (Providence Trilogy: Book Two) Eden (Providence Trilogy: Book Three)

  Beautiful Disaster Walking Disaster

  A Beautiful Wedding (A Beautiful Disaster Novella) Beautiful Oblivion Beautiful Redemption

  Red Hill

  Among Monsters

  Happenstance: A Novella Series Happenstance: A Novella Series (Part Two) Happenstance: A Novella Series (Part Three)

  Apolonia

  For Fred LeBaron

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  GO HOME, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS, AND KILL YOURSELF.

  My lids popped wide open, and my eyes danced around the dark room. Worry, fear, and panic returned as the naked white walls of the hospital room came into focus. The soft green numbers on the display on the IV pump cast an eerie glow as I recalled the events from the day before.

  Paramedics carrying Weston away on a stretcher from the dugout was the most frightening moment of my life. The more frightening parts played over and over in my mind. The inhaler falling from his limp hand, sirens from the ambulance racing for the hospital--it was all crowded together in my head.

  I closed my eyes, willing the awful memory and feelings away. Weston's rhythmic breaths and the staccato beeps of his life on the monitors made the tension melt away. He was alive. Everything was going to be okay.

  My body lined his, and I was hyperaware of every inch of my skin touching his that wasn't covered by his hospital gown. He was so warm under the thick linen blanket the nurse had given us. I lay still, wrapped in the arms of the boy who loved me, my hip already complaining from being in the same position for too long.

  Hints of a sunrise were already slipping through the blinds and chasing away the darkness. Weston stirred, and I silently wished the night had held on just a little longer.

  Veronica Gates was reading a magazine in the overstuffed mauve recliner across the room. Along with her rectangular black-rimmed reading glasses, she was using the flashlight on her cell phone to see.

  I lifted my head, which prompted her to look up.

  "Good morning," she whispered, nearly inaudible.

  Not wanting to risk waking up Weston, the only thing I could offer was a small smile. When my head gently relaxed against Weston's chest, his arms tightened, and he pulled in a deep breath.

  Veronica managed a silent laugh, and then she moved to the wooden chair sitting closer to the bed. "He used to hold his teddy bear like that. If I tried to pull it out of his arms after he'd fallen asleep, he'd tighten his grip."

  She crossed her legs and intertwined her fingers, watching her son with unqualified love. "He came home from the first grade, and quite matter-of-factly, he said to Peter and me, 'I'm getting married,'" she said, imitating a seven-year-old Weston. She breathed out a laugh again, lost in the memory. "Peter asked him, 'When?' Weston said, 'Later,' and then I asked him, 'Who?' He said, 'Erin.'" She watched for my reaction. "At the time, I thought he meant Alder, but then he made me promise never to tell you that story, and I realized I had been wrong."

  My breath faltered.

  "That was a long time ago. I don't think he'd mind now." She looked down at Weston and then back at me. "I'm glad he meant you, Erin. I don't think I've told you that."

  "I'm just lucky he doesn't easily give up," I whispered.

  Weston stirred again, and Veronica leaned in closer to get a better look at her son.

  He groaned. "Erin?"

  Veronica raised an eyebrow and then shot a knowing look my way.

  "I'm here," I said.

  With his eyes still closed, he leaned down the inch or two to graze my hair with his lips. The sun brightened up the room enough to see what the shadows had hidden just ten minutes before.

  Weston sighed. "Good. Don't leave."

  "I won't," I said.

  "In that case, I'd better get you some breakfast," Veronica said, standing.

  "Good morning!" the nurse said, her voice seeming too loud after Veronica had been so careful to whisper. "I'm Amelia. How are you feeling?" Her bright pink scrubs matched her mood.

  Veronica watched her from the corner of the room as she gathered her purse and keys from a chair.

  Amelia had a pile of shiny long braids twisted into a beautiful round bun on the top of her head, adding at least four inches of height to her petite, round frame.

  Weston's sleepy eyes blinked. "Whoa, I was out."

  "It's the meds," she said. "I'm going to take your vitals and then wait for Dr. Shuart to call. I bet he'll release you today." She winked and motioned for me to move.

  I obeyed, scrambling from the bed.

  Weston frowned. "Don't leave."

  Veronica shook her head, amused. "She said she's staying, son, my goodness."

  He watched me with mistrust. Whatever warmth Veronica's story had left with me quickly vanished.

  "Is this your girl?" Amelia asked Weston, mostly teasing.

  Weston didn't take his eyes off of me, waiting for me to answer.

  "I heard she'd slept half the night on that awful couch in the waiting room and the rest squished in your bed. The night nurses thought it was cute. My back would not be happy with me. No, sir," Amelia said, shaking her head at the thought.

  The blood pressure machine buzzed as it inflated the cuff. Weston winced as it tightened. Amelia put a clip on his finger and seemed happy with the numbers that made zero sense to me.

  "All good?" Veronica asked.

  Amelia nodded. "Like it never happened."

  Veronica let out a small breath. "Can he have breakfast?"

  "Absolutely." She handed him a laminated long menu card. "Just buzz me when you decide if you want the runny oatmeal or the greasy eggs."

  By Weston's expression, I could tell the choices on the card weren't all that enticing. Amelia left the room as quickly as she'd come, prompting Veronica to slide her purse strap over her shoulder.

  "I'll just pick something up for everyone. I'll run down to Braum's for biscuits and gravy."

  Weston perked up.

  "I'll go with you," I said.

  "No, you should stay," Weston said.

  Veronica walked the few steps to peck her son's cheek and then gripped her keys. "I'll call Dad and let him know you're awake." Her eyes fell on me. "Are you staying?"

  By Weston's expression, I could see that he wanted to use the opportunity to talk alone. I glanced back at Veronica and nodded.

/>   "Be sure to call me if Dr. Shuart comes by," she said.

  "Of course," I said.

  She walked into the hallway, looked both ways, and then turned left toward the elevators. Her voice could barely be heard as she greeted the women at the nurses' station, and a few moments later, the elevator chimed, signaling its arrival to the floor.

  I stood in the corner where I'd retreated from the nurse, watching as Weston put one wrist behind his head with an indeterminable expression on his face.

  "Biscuits and gravy sound really good." As if on cue, my stomach growled, and I touched my white shirt with both hands.

  "You stayed here all night," he said, not at all a question.

  I nodded once and crossed my arms over my middle, wondering what he'd wanted to say that had to wait until his mother left.

  He looked down toward his toes, lost in thought. "You can lie to me. I won't hold it against you."

  "What?" I asked.

  Deep sadness touched his eyes. "I meant what I said. Even if you leave for Stillwater, love OSU, and never come back, my memories of the next few weeks won't mean as much if you're not in them. I don't want you to make promises you can't keep, Erin...but right now, I can say that I'd be okay with a lie. Just lie to me. Let's do the prom thing, celebrate graduation like crazy people, and have the best summer of all time. We'll just get on the roller coaster, ride, and pretend that it's never going to end."

  "Still winging it?"

  One corner of my mouth pulled up, but his jaw tensed.

  "No," he said. "You've always been the plan. It'll always be you."

  I walked over to his bedside and leaned down. Stopping just short of his lips, I searched his eyes for a promise or some sign that he could somehow see the future. His fingers gripped my arms as he pulled me the few inches to touch his mouth to mine.

  One day, he might let me go but not in that moment. Eighteen, with a lifetime ahead, he was asking me to lose myself in the last scene of my childhood, to get lost somewhere in the summer of us. I had already been adrift my entire life, and what he was asking of me now was particularly frightening.

  When Weston said things like that though, what I always wanted to lose was any thoughts of being found.

  "Babe?" he whispered, searching my eyes. The beeping on the monitor picked up a bit.

  Whether it was naivete or foolish hope to think we were the kind of people who lived in that parallel universe where high school love could last, I didn't just want to believe. I wanted to trust him even if it would only be until August.

  "Deal," I said.

  Offering only a half smile in response, his palm settled on the back of my messy hair, and he pulled me close until his lips touched mine. His tongue slipped into my mouth--dancing with mine, slow and sweet--as he sealed the promise we'd just made, and then he pulled me onto the bed.

  His nose nuzzled against my neck, and I giggled, impervious to anyone who might hear. He was holding me close, and he was relaxed, relieved, and maybe still feeling the effects of sedation.

  A knock on the door made us pause, and then I turned to see Dr. Shuart standing there in a white jacket and collared plaid shirt.

  "And how is Mr. Gates this morning?" he asked, walking in with a nurse. "I'm going to take a wild guess and say you're just fine."

  My cheeks flushed red, and once again, I shrank back to the chair in the corner. Weston wasn't fazed. He had a smug grin on his face.

  "This is Dacia," Dr. Shuart said, just slightly turning his shoulder in her direction.

  Dacia nodded to me and smiled a greeting to Weston. Then, she went back to scrawling on the paper in the open binder she held. "Weston is our last patient, Doctor. You have ten minutes to get back to the office before your first appointment, so don't stop downstairs to chat. Go straight over," she said in a motherly tone.

  Dr. Shuart turned his back to her and raised his eyebrows once. "She is the cracker of the whip. Keeps me in line."

  "Someone has to," she muttered, still writing.

  I sat back in the overstuffed recliner, pulling out my phone to text Veronica, as Dr. Shuart chatted with Weston. They discussed his prescriptions, and Dr. Shuart explained that Weston would need one more breathing treatment before his release.

  The doctor and Dacia waved good-bye to me before leaving the room, and my phone chimed.

  "Your mom wants me to ask the doctor to come back in fifteen minutes," I said. "Apparently, the drive-through line is exceptionally long."

  "She said that?" Weston asked, dubious.

  "She might have said, 'The damn line.'"

  "I don't think Dacia will go for it."

  "I think you're right," I said, filling my back pocket with my cell phone. I looked at my watch.

  "Are you working today?" Weston asked.

  "Hair appointment with Julianne. But I'm going to cancel."

  "You've already canceled once. Go ahead. I don't want you watching me puff on that stupid nebulizer anyway. I'll feel ridiculous."

  "It's not for another hour. And I'm looking forward to biscuits and gravy."

  "You're afraid my mom will be pissed about you leaving me here alone, aren't you?" He smirked.

  "That, too."

  My phone chimed again. I pulled it out of my pocket, read the message, and then left the phone on my lap.

  "Who was that?" Weston asked.

  "Julianne, reminding me about the appointment."

  Veronica walked in with two plastic sacks, exasperated. I stood to help her, but my phone crashed to the floor.

  "Uh-oh!" Veronica said.

  I turned it over and sighed in relief when I saw the screen was still intact. I took a step toward Veronica, but she shooed me away, so I sat on the bed with Weston. She handed each of us a Styrofoam container with a closed flip-top lid and a package filled with plasticware and a napkin.

  Once the lid was open and with a fork in hand, Weston dug in, ravenous. I struggled with the plastic knife as I attempted to cut the biscuits, so it took me twice as long to finish, but I didn't mind. The gravy was creamy and peppery, and my taste buds were singing praises to the gods of Southern cooking and whoever had thought of and perfected the combination of grease, flour, and milk.

  Veronica took our empty containers and crammed them into the small trash can beside the door.

  I picked up my wallet and phone.

  "You're leaving?" she asked.

  Weston answered for me, "She has a hair appointment with Julianne. I wouldn't let her cancel."

  "Of course not," Veronica said. "I raised you."

  I chuckled and started for the door, but Weston tapped his cheek. I rushed over to give him a peck, but he turned and kissed me square on the mouth, gently holding my wrist so that I lingered there for a while.

  For the second time that morning, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. My eyes didn't meet Veronica's when I walked out.

  As I turned the corner, Veronica scolded her son, "You didn't ask her, did you?"

  I paused and then pressed my back against the wall just outside the door. It was quiet for several seconds, and then I had to strain to hear Weston's answer.

  "I've already asked her, Mom."

  "Is it official?"

  "Yes, we're going to prom."

  "And?"

  "I don't know. Don't ask me about Erin, Mom. It's weird." After a short pause, he continued, "I heard you, by the way."

  "The teddy bear story? Sorry. I couldn't help myself."

  "And the other one."

  "About you claiming her as your future bride?"

  Veronica mumbled something else.

  Then, Weston spoke again, "It's okay. I'm glad she knows."

  "So, you did. You meant Easter."

  "That's not her name anymore, Mom, but yes, I meant her."

  I heard the bed crumple.

  "I hope you know what you're doing, son."

  "Stop," Weston warned.

  "I just don't want either of you getting hurt," she said s
incerely.

  "I'm just going to hold on until she's gone, Mom. That's all I can do."

  Veronica didn't respond, so I walked toward the elevator, trying not to trip over his words on the way.

  "I LIKE IT," Weston said, twisting the lid off my Fanta Orange bottle.

  The familiar sounds of fizz and cars passing beneath us made my entire body relax. Sitting on a denim quilt in the bed of Weston's red Chevy pickup, sipping on a cold pop, and feeling the sides of the gritty bed liner scratching against my shoulder blades were comforting. It was much better than joining everyone else at the parking lot of the baseball field.

  "It feels really short," I said, running my fingers over the wavy ends of my chestnut tresses. The stylist had cut off over nine inches of my hair, but it still fell a bit past my shoulders.

  "It's shinier and bouncier, and it looks darker."

  "All good things," I said.

  I pressed the gritty liner into my skin as if it would help me to remember the details more. Happiness didn't feel happier than this, and even if the rest of my life was storybook perfect, I knew I would want to remember every second of our nights on the overpass.

  Lightning bugs were buzzing over the top of the newly emerging wheat in the fields bordering both sides of the bridge. Even in the twilight, the fields looked like miles of plush green grass. The mosquitoes were hovering, but we just waved them away, choosing the unusually hot spring air instead of the mosquito-free cab of the truck.

  "You're wearing the necklace."

  "I took it by Gose Jewelers after my appointment. You were still waiting to be discharged."

  "That took forever," he grumbled.

  "At least you're better. You're better, right?"

  "Right as rain," he said with a twinkle in his eye. He leaned forward, his palms flat on the quilt, and his nose gently moved my head to the side while he simultaneously tasted my neck.

  "Salty," he whispered after his tongue had teased my skin.

  "Not as good as ice cream," I said with a smile.

  "Actually, I think it's better." His lips traveled to my ear but moved on too quickly to my cheek, and then the gentleness went away, and he ravaged my mouth.

  Never before had we made better use of his truck, grabbing at buttons and zippers and yanking fabric up and then down. The moment Weston's breathing became a bit labored, I froze.

  "What?" he asked, hovering above me.

  "You're wheezing."

  "I have my inhaler." He chuckled. "I'm fine, I swear."

  "That doesn't make me feel better anymore."