* * *
—
The insistent ringing of a phone drags me back into consciousness. I must not have been asleep for long. My hair is still damp with sweat, and I feel uncomfortably messy between my legs. Groaning, I push myself into a sitting position.
“Let them leave a message,” Quan murmurs sleepily.
“I can’t. That’s my mom’s ringtone.” I slip out of bed to grope around the floor blindly for my dress.
I find something that feels dress-like and pul
l it over my head, only to have it fall just below my butt. It must be Quan’s shirt, but it’ll have to do. I find my way to the door and go to my living room to hunt for my phone, turning on the lamp on the end table as I go. My phone’s stopped ringing, and I can’t remember where in the world I stuck it (a common problem for me). I look all over—on my coffee table and bookshelves, under my couch pillows. I even check inside my shoes and get down on all fours to peer under my couch.
“It’s in my jacket pocket.”
I glance over my shoulder, and the sight of Quan makes my heart sigh. He’s leaning casually against the wall, shirtless, wearing only his jeans, which ride low on his hips. I touched all of that, that skin, that ink, without seeing any of it. It’s a shame that we did everything in the dark.
Except if it wasn’t dark, I never could have done what I did.
Was that why he suggested it? Not for himself, but for me?
His gaze sweeps over me, dark, intense, possessive even, and I become aware of my bent-over, kneeling position and the fact that I’m not wearing any underwear. He must have quite the view. I straighten and yank on the hem of his T-shirt, embarrassed and self-conscious. But I also feel immensely desired and sexy, things I’m not sure I’ve ever truly felt before.
My phone starts ringing again from within his pocket, and I hurry to fish it out. It’s almost midnight. This can’t be good.
“Hi, Ma. Is everything okay?”
“You finally picked up.” There’s an odd muffled sound followed by a long, high-pitched keening. I’m so unfamiliar with it that it takes me a moment to fully comprehend what it is. It’s crying. My mom is crying.
I have never, not once in my entire life, heard my mom cry like this.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” I ask.
“The hospital. It’s your ba. I thought he was sleeping,” she says before she breaks into heartrending sobs.
“W-what happened?” Possibilities flicker through my mind, each one worse than the one before it. Pressure builds in my head, so great that my scalp pricks and tingles.
“He had a stroke, a big one. Come see him, Anna. Come right away.”
Part Two
During
NINETEEN
Anna
I’m numb during the hour-long trip to the hospital, barely noticing when Quan stops at the parking garage beneath his apartment building to swap his motorcycle for a black Audi SUV. It has that new-car smell, which I find nauseating, but I like that he cares about my safety. I don’t own a car, so I really appreciate that he’s driving me. I would have arranged an Uber otherwise—was in the process of doing it when he asked me what in the world I was doing.
So this is what it’s like to have a boyfriend who isn’t gone all the time. When this numbness is gone, I’m sure I’ll have feelings about this.
For now, I need facts, information. I don’t cry, I don’t grieve, I will hold this ice in place until I know more.
I’d ask Priscilla—she always knows everything—but according to the text messages I missed while Quan and I were fooling around, she jumped on a red-eye to California and will be unavailable until morning.
At the hospital, the front desk gives us visitor badges and complicated directions to my dad’s room. I’m on the verge of panic as I struggle to remember all the turns, but Quan takes my hand and shows me the way, like he’s been here before. Maybe he has.
The hallways are bright and busy. It could be daytime. Sickness doesn’t keep normal hours.