Chapter 9- Ethan
908 Words
Ethan's pov
Beep.
That’s the first thing. Always.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Then white. The ceiling tiles are white. 12 of them. I counted. I count every day. Sometimes twice.
The nurses think I’m asleep. I’m not. I’m just stuck.
Inside.
Where it’s quiet. Where Dad isn’t yelling. Where the car isn’t flipping. Where my legs aren’t not-mine.
---
I hear her before I see her. Shade.
She doesn’t knock. She never does. Just walks in like she owns the place. Like she owns me.
“Hey, i***t,” she says. Same as always.
She smells like smoke and blue ink. Not hospital soap. Never that. She’s the only thing in here that doesn’t.
She sits in the chair. Puts her feet up on my bed. Mom would yell. I can’t.
“School’s stupid,” she says. “Mikey’s building another house without a roof. Mom’s still on the couch.”
She talks like I’m answering. Like I’m nodding. Like I’m not just beep, beep, beeping.
She pulls something out of her pocket. A wipe. Used. Blue on it.
“This is from one of my grade mate,” she says. “He’s scared of me. Or for me. I can’t tell yet.”
Grade mate??. The word sticks. Itches.
She leans forward. Her hair falls in my face. It’s black. Like mine. Was. Before they shaved it after the crash.
“I said his name last night,” she whispers. “In my sleep. Mikey told him.”
Her voice cracks. Just a little. She’d kill me for noticing.
“I don’t know why I keep doing this,” she says. “Coming here. Talking to you. You don’t even hear me.”
I do.
I hear every word.
I hear _Virelli_ when she says it. I hear the way it catches. Like Dad used to. Like _accelerate_ and _don’t tell your mother_ and _watch this, son_.
I hear it, and the beeping gets faster.
She doesn’t notice. Or she pretends not to.
She stands up. Puts the wipe on the table next to my pills. Like an offering.
“I’ll be back,” she says. “Probably. Don’t wait up.”
Same thing she says to Lukas. I know. She told me. She tells me everything.
Because I can’t tell anyone else.
The door closes.
Beep.
She left the window cracked. I can smell rain. Smells like the night Dad took the car. Smells like before.
The nurse comes in. Checks the machines. Writes something down. She doesn’t look at me.
Nobody does. Except Shade.
Shade looks at me like I’m still here.
And the worst part?
I am.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
I wish I wasn’t.
Damian's POV
My parents’ house is quiet after 10 PM.
Always has been. Dad goes to bed at 9:30. Mom falls asleep with the TV on.
Just me and the kitchen light and the name I’m not supposed to be writing on the napkin.
_Shade _
I cross it out. Ink bleeds. Blue. Same blue she had on her fingers.
I’m 19. I should be at college. Instead I’m home, working at the garage with my dad, living in my old room with the same stupid posters I had at 15.
And thinking about a 17-year-old girl who looks at me like I’m either a fight or a funeral.
“Damian? You’re up late.”
Mom. In her robe. Squinting at me over her mug of tea.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie.
She looks at the napkin. At the black marks I tried to scratch out. She doesn’t ask. Mom never asks when it matters.
“Your father needs you up early. That transmission won’t fix itself.”
“I know.”
She nods. Sips. “That girl you always talk about, The one your father helped solve the case, She okay? Haven’t seen her this week.
Right. That’s what we’re calling it. Because _kid from Mercer Street who shows up at the garage asking for me_ sounds bad. Because _girl I can’t stop thinking about_ sounds worse.
“She’s fine,” I say. Too fast. “I think.”
Mom studies me. “You like her.”. she asked
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer. I crumple the napkin. Blue ink on my palm.
“Be careful, baby,” she says, soft. “Her daddy’s gone, but that family’s got ghosts. And you’re not good at exorcisms.”
She goes back to bed. TV light flickers down the hall.
I uncrumple the napkin.
_Shade._
Ethan’s in the hospital. Mikey’s at home. And she’s somewhere in between, sleeping at 4 PM and saying my name when she cries.
I’m not anything official. Just the i***t who kept traumatizing her because she's a nerd
This is a crush. That’s what I call it. Like I’m 16. Like it’s harmless.
It’s not harmless.
Crushes don’t make you stare at your bedroom ceiling at 1 AM wondering if she’s at the hospital or on a roof. Crushes don’t make you check your phone 20 times for a text from a girl who doesn’t even have your number.
Crushes don’t make you think _mine_ when you hear _Virelli_ in her mouth.
I toss the napkin in the trash.
Then I dig it back out.
Because empty seats at the garage are normal.
But missing her isn’t.
_Come back,_ I write on a new napkin. Don’t say where. She’ll know.
She always knows.
- Writer
