then, I’ve always been lucky, haven’t I?” She gave him a wan smile. “I met you. That was my first lucky break. I didn’t take good enough care of you. I took you for granted, messed around, and now you’re gone. Like everything good in my life.” She gestured for him to come over.
He glanced toward me as if asking for my understanding. I nodded. What else could I do? She needed him. He needed to be here for her.
Persephone hadn’t even glanced at me. As if she knew I was no threat. Unexpectedly, the thought made my chest hurt.
When he got close enough, Persephone raised his hand to her lips. “My sweet Dylan, always looking out for me. You told me not to buy that motorcycle, didn’t you? If we were still together, I’d still be whole.”
“You are. Or you will be. It’ll take time, that’s all.” He withdrew his hand, but gently. “You should ask your family to come stay with you for a while, until you heal.”
“Family? I don’t need them. I have Laurent. Laurent understands me. He says I’m a Pre-Raphaelite angel, that I was born in the wrong century. Can you call him? He should know. He should come be with me.” She looked around. “Where’s my phone? They brought my things into the room, didn’t they?”
I cleared my throat. “Your phone might not have survived the accident.”
She gave me an irritated look. “Who are you again?”
“Samantha.”
“Are you Dylan’s girlfriend? Or, no, his fuck buddy, right? The one who talked to me on the phone that time.” Her voice grated, her tone such a contrast to her porcelain fragility, but the woman had been pummeled enough today. I clenched my fists against my sides and remained silent.
Dylan pulled away from her. “Samantha is a friend. Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Sorry.” She gave me a glance under hooded eyes, clearly not sorry at all. She clung to his jacket. “I’m so glad you came. I missed you.”
Seriously? Laurent one breath and Dylan the next? There was an easy solution, thankfully. “Give me your boyfriend’s phone number. I’ll call him for you.”
And indeed, Persephone let go of Dylan’s jacket. Her face brightened. “Yes. Laurent will come for me. He’ll want to be here to help me through this. He’ll change his mind. He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t. My beautiful Laurent. He’s a poet, did you know that? His words are so exquisite.” She sounded dreamy. Drugged. The meds must be kicking in. “Yes, do that. He’ll come for me and leave that crazy lady he’s taken up with.”
Which was how I ended up pacing past the nurse’s station with my phone to my ear, explaining patiently to a man I’d never met that his ex-girlfriend—no, not his ex? A short-term fling? Well, she didn’t know that—had gone on a mad motorcycle escapade and crashed into a sidewall off the FDR Drive, and would he come visit the hospital? “Yes, on the ninth floor. Tell the desk it’s room 914. Sure, bring flowers. That sounds nice. No, she doesn’t look terrible. Still pretty. Yes, like sunshine and the promise of spring. Exactly like.”
I got off the phone feeling vaguely mournful. He’d sounded baffled at first, like he hadn’t known what role he was supposed to play, but his light French accent had become thicker by the end of the conversation, as if in preparation for his hospital visit. Was anything in Persephone’s life real?
When I went back into the room, Dylan had broken free of Persephone. She dozed in her nest of tubes and monitors. The pulse-ox on her finger glowed red. Dylan had his back to the door and seemed to be staring moodily out at the 59 th Street Bridge and the Roosevelt Island tram half a mile south of us. The night was illuminated by clouds catching and reflecting the city lights. I wished I could see his face. I wished I could touch him, comfort him. I wished—
I wished I didn’t care.
I turned away. “I should go.”
“Don’t.” Dylan
He glanced toward me as if asking for my understanding. I nodded. What else could I do? She needed him. He needed to be here for her.
Persephone hadn’t even glanced at me. As if she knew I was no threat. Unexpectedly, the thought made my chest hurt.
When he got close enough, Persephone raised his hand to her lips. “My sweet Dylan, always looking out for me. You told me not to buy that motorcycle, didn’t you? If we were still together, I’d still be whole.”
“You are. Or you will be. It’ll take time, that’s all.” He withdrew his hand, but gently. “You should ask your family to come stay with you for a while, until you heal.”
“Family? I don’t need them. I have Laurent. Laurent understands me. He says I’m a Pre-Raphaelite angel, that I was born in the wrong century. Can you call him? He should know. He should come be with me.” She looked around. “Where’s my phone? They brought my things into the room, didn’t they?”
I cleared my throat. “Your phone might not have survived the accident.”
She gave me an irritated look. “Who are you again?”
“Samantha.”
“Are you Dylan’s girlfriend? Or, no, his fuck buddy, right? The one who talked to me on the phone that time.” Her voice grated, her tone such a contrast to her porcelain fragility, but the woman had been pummeled enough today. I clenched my fists against my sides and remained silent.
Dylan pulled away from her. “Samantha is a friend. Don’t talk about her like that.”
“Sorry.” She gave me a glance under hooded eyes, clearly not sorry at all. She clung to his jacket. “I’m so glad you came. I missed you.”
Seriously? Laurent one breath and Dylan the next? There was an easy solution, thankfully. “Give me your boyfriend’s phone number. I’ll call him for you.”
And indeed, Persephone let go of Dylan’s jacket. Her face brightened. “Yes. Laurent will come for me. He’ll want to be here to help me through this. He’ll change his mind. He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t. My beautiful Laurent. He’s a poet, did you know that? His words are so exquisite.” She sounded dreamy. Drugged. The meds must be kicking in. “Yes, do that. He’ll come for me and leave that crazy lady he’s taken up with.”
Which was how I ended up pacing past the nurse’s station with my phone to my ear, explaining patiently to a man I’d never met that his ex-girlfriend—no, not his ex? A short-term fling? Well, she didn’t know that—had gone on a mad motorcycle escapade and crashed into a sidewall off the FDR Drive, and would he come visit the hospital? “Yes, on the ninth floor. Tell the desk it’s room 914. Sure, bring flowers. That sounds nice. No, she doesn’t look terrible. Still pretty. Yes, like sunshine and the promise of spring. Exactly like.”
I got off the phone feeling vaguely mournful. He’d sounded baffled at first, like he hadn’t known what role he was supposed to play, but his light French accent had become thicker by the end of the conversation, as if in preparation for his hospital visit. Was anything in Persephone’s life real?
When I went back into the room, Dylan had broken free of Persephone. She dozed in her nest of tubes and monitors. The pulse-ox on her finger glowed red. Dylan had his back to the door and seemed to be staring moodily out at the 59 th Street Bridge and the Roosevelt Island tram half a mile south of us. The night was illuminated by clouds catching and reflecting the city lights. I wished I could see his face. I wished I could touch him, comfort him. I wished—
I wished I didn’t care.
I turned away. “I should go.”
“Don’t.” Dylan
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