In that moment, she realized that was exactly what she wanted. She wanted Brystol and Bowie to mean something to each other. She wanted Bowie to mean something to her. And if she was being honest, she even wanted to mean something to Bowie. Life hit her squarely in the chest as she stared at them. She should’ve never left, or at least she should’ve come back. Instead, she had run. She had run from her life, from her mistakes, and from her future. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she would’ve married Bowie if she had stayed, and that scared her now as much as it had back then. She knew that after Austin died, all she would have had to do was open the door and Bowie would’ve been there. He would’ve held her through her tears, guided her through her heartbreak, and been the hand she held while delivering her daughter. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. What had deterred her was her apprehension that Carly wouldn’t understand, that their friends would turn their backs on them. She hadn’t cared if they shunned her, but not Bowie. He would need them with Austin gone. Still, she longed for her best friend and the easy way he was able to comfort her.
He bent down and whispered into Brystol’s ear. Brooklyn saw her daughter smile, and she continued to hold that smile until she reached her. “Mommy, Nonnie will be okay.”
Brooklyn brought her daughter into her arms, careful not to bump the bandage, and worked hard to hold her sobs in. She didn’t want to cry in front of Brystol—she wanted to remain strong and hopeful—but the truth was, Carly was sick and hiding it from everyone. Brystol tightened her hold around her mother’s waist before pulling back.
“I’m going to go to the cafeteria and get a drink. Would you like something?”
She pushed the short wispy pieces of her daughter’s hair away from her face and grinned. “I’m okay. I’m going to sit in the waiting room and wait for Nonnie’s doctor to come out.” She leaned down and kissed her daughter on the nose, not caring if the teen liked it or not.
As soon as Brystol was out of sight, Bowie moved toward Brooklyn. He reached for her arm and ran his fingers over the bandage.
“I’m okay,” she said.
Bowie held her arm, letting his thumb rub over the dressing. “Okay,” he said, quietly echoing the word she had said to him the night before. As soon as he looked into her eyes, all reservations were gone. She launched herself into his arms and let her tears flow. He held her tightly, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. She wanted to ask him how he could be so certain but couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, holding each other. When others passed by, they didn’t move. When another emergency came in, they continued to stand there. It wasn’t until her sobs ran dry that Bowie took her hand and led her into the waiting room. He brought them to a corner, away from most of the people. Bowie rested his arm behind her, along the back of the dark-orange, two-cushioned chair, with his hand touching her shoulder and his other hand holding hers, resting on her lap. The way they were sitting was awkward; it made them look as if they were closer than they truly were, but she didn’t want him to move.
Simone rushed in and looked frantically around the waiting room. Bowie called her over, and she took the open chair across from them, sighing heavily in relief. In her lap, she held a clear plastic bag full of pill bottles. She regarded the two of them, her eyes roving over them. If she had something to say about the way they were sitting, she held it in.
“What’s wrong with Carly?” Brooklyn asked her pointedly.
Simone sighed. From the look in her eyes, Brooklyn could tell she had been crying. “She’s sick, Brooklyn.”
“How sick?” she asked, finally leaning forward. The second Bowie’s hand slipped from hers, she felt the loss. She told herself it was nothing more than nostalgia playing games with her, even though deep down she knew that wasn’t true. He used to be her go-to, her best friend, the guy she would dump her troubles on, and in turn he would make her laugh and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Just as he had done earlier. Bowie and she weren’t friends; they were so much more, and yet, they weren’t. How do you depend on someone you haven’t seen or spoken to in fifteen years? How do you forget a part of your life when one moment was the catalyst for your life changing? Brooklyn wasn’t sure, but she already knew that Bowie had forgiven her when he stepped up when her daughter needed someone, and he was here, being her rock like nothing had ever changed.