What I Couldn't Tell Him

41 - It was always too late

ALDEN WOLFF

I ignored Brooklyn's persistent calls and texts all morning. When Jordan started adding to it, I put my phone on silent. I had a brief worry that Jaimie might call, then forced away the stupid thought.  She doesn't want me. I don't want her. I repeat it to myself whenever I think like that. 

The twins are staying with another reluctant relative, who seems to understand the fact a teenage boy needs at least one lie in a year. I go downstairs and attempt to wash away the hangover from the night before. It doesn't work.

I make a coffee, thick as treacle and so strong the spoon can stand up on it's own, and end up back in my bed. I switch off my alarm and anything that would be rude enough to wake me up on my one day of freedom. 

I don't hear anything, slipping into a heavy sleep that I have been missing. Fragments of things, the wind, sirens,  car engines slip through, but I did not wake. 

I yawn and stretch my arms, feeling refreshed by my lie in. I don't have to get up to make the twins breakfast, I don't have to do anything. I feel free. 

I have made toast, washed my hair and watched the final episode of some crap comedy I have been watching, before I check my phone again. I expect to see thirty thousand p*ssed texts of the guys.

What I see instead, are ten missed calls from a number I don't recognise. I don't let myself panic, but it happens anyway. What if it is the twins? My mum? 

I dial it quickly, fumbling over the numbers.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Is this Alden Wolff?" A voice asks, tight and dull.

"Who is this?"

"I am from St. Margaret's Hospital. Are you aware of Jaimie Perron's admission this morning?"

I can't speak. My heart fills my ears and cotton wool fills my head, each beat like a gunshot. I never thought it could be Jaimie. 

"No."

"She has just come out of surgery-"

"I'm coming." I hang up and get my jacket, shoes and run to my bike. 

I make it to the hospital, barely remembering the journey, thoughts racing through my head faster than traffic on a motorway. She is fine. She probably broke her arm or something.  As I walk in, I try desperately to clear my head. She will be fine. It's a minor injury. 

"Jaimie Perron?" I demand at the desk, practically shouting. The woman moves too slowly, rolling her eyes and sifting through papers and files.  I bounce on the balls of my feet, drumming my fingers on the desk. She probably broke her arm.

"Are you immediate family?" She drawls.

"Where is she?"

"I cannot let you see her yet. Are you immediate family?" She peers over her glasses and I see people in various groups starting to watch the exchange.  Particularly a girl, probably my age, with an amused smirk. Her hair is shaved and she has a drip in her arm but there is life in her eyes. I find myself imagining Jaimie like that, and catch myself. She is probably fine.

"Does it matter?" I hiss.

"Yes, actually. I can't let anyone into the ICU wing who is not immediately related to a patient-"

I take off at a sprint down the hall, eyes blurred, following signs that point there. I hear  the woman, but I do not listen. She is hurt. She can't be. I have to find her.

I see someone in uniform.

"Where is Jaimie Perron?" 

"Room 265. Do you want me to show you?" The doctor is kind, jogging with me to satisfy my anxiousness. We pass wards of crying families, young children clinging to life. I swallow the lump in my throat. They are exaggerating. It must be precautionary.