Jerome did the same and bumped their knuckles together. "Sorry."
"For what? We both got burned doing what we loved. That's the deal. Live. Burn." He scooped Flip up, still fast asleep.
On the other side of the curtain, raised voices speaking Spanish as a gurney wheeled past.
"We okay to go, y'think?" Wince looked to Jerome. "I'd like to get this guy home."
Jerome scanned the room, plucking his bag and coat off the stool.
"I gave them everything, talked to the doc before I came in." Wince shifted his weight, itchy to flee.
Of course, Wince hated emergency rooms: How many times had he watched his parents bleeding and screaming in these places? How many times had he had his stomach pumped and worse? And how much did Wince remember of the last night they saw each other? The only time they ever kissed, both drunk enough to pretend they hadn't. Wasted and wasting everything they had because they didn't know better, what mattered, what didn't.
Wince's teenaged voice in his head: What am I good for, Jug?
Me.
And then kissing him, terrified and triumphant. So close to perfect, best friends for three years and they'd blown it in one horrible night, joyriding in the rain. Reckless and wrecked. The car Wince had stolen 'cause he knew how. The Lincoln they'd totaled. Blood in both their eyes from the dashboard. The taste of Wince and shit whiskey in his mouth while he confessed to cops and parents.
After that night, Jerome's parents forbade him to speak to his best friend, his only friend. Wince got expelled, vanished into juvie then worse. No goodbye, no contact. Jerome trudged back to his regularly scheduled life--prep school, undergrad, med school, wife--until that life vanished, too.
No one had died that night, but everything had ended in a white room just like this one; seventeen years burned-burned-burned to ash. Leaving them alone where they belonged.
Jerome trailed through the ER hanging a little behind father and son, afraid of making things worse. Up ahead, he could see Keisha's red coat by the exit, the mouse tail peeking out below.
Gotta go. Irrationally he caught himself wasting time, walking slowly. What if he never got to talk to Wince again like this? They had half an hour, and it was only seven blocks to Lincoln Center.
"What was Keisha's pig deal?" Wince glanced sideways at him. "Does The Nutcracker have pigs?"
Jerome chuckled and sighed. "Eighth-grade biology. Fetal pig dissection. I dunno." He slid his fingers together and crossed his arms. "Somehow dissecting this pig became a huge crisis."
"Well, her mom died," Wince spoke softly, but the words fell like a hammer.
Jerome'd never thought of that. "You think that
's why?" They were almost to the door.
"I think she's a kid who's already had to hug death close, and that might make Porky Jr. a real drag." He sniffed and regarded his son gently. "When Flip's mom left, it took a year to be real to him, her bailing on us so easy. He still talks to her sometimes. Pretends. Y'know. Hurts to watch." His eyes did that thing where they softened without moving. Laugh lines. When had he gotten so grown up?
We're old, yo.
Maybe regret wasn't so bad. Maybe that was something you learned to live with. An inch at a time, like sliding into warm water over a fire until you could tolerate being boiled alive.
"Daddy." Flip's voice broke the spell. He squirmed against Wince's chest.
Wince blinked and looked down. "Oh lord. What now?" His warm tone made the words into an old joke.
The boy sighed. "Never mind." His cast was strapped against him like an oversized fiberglass fossil.
"Okay." Wince hefted him closer. "We're going home, mister." The automatic doors shushed open for them.
Keisha glowered at him through the glass, the mouse tail draped over her arm like a rubbery pink stole.
Before stepping out into the frosty air, Jerome wrapped his scarf around his neck and zipped his coat. "Keesh, we got ages still."
Keisha herded him toward the curb. "They're rehearsing Coffee with the new Russian couple. Chumakov and Petrachenko. I wanna watch. Legit."
Jerome laughed. "Okay. Okay. Legit."