We wait hours, but Matt’s dad never shows. No one will tell us where he is, or why. They won’t let us see Matt since we’re not family, but we can’t let that stand. He has to know he’s not alone. Now more than ever.
After the others have gone home, dragged from the scene by their parents, Simon distracts the nurses so Patrick and I can slip in to Matt’s room in the ER. As we move down the hall, Patrick says, “Would you rather go in alone?”
I would, but I shake my head anyway. “He needs to know we’re all here.”
His bed is by the window, with a curtain between us and the door. The other bed is unoccupied. The light is dim, just a narrow, buzzing strip across the wall above the bed, and the ambient glow from the sunset light outside, through the window.
Matt’s wrists are tied to the bed rails with soft restraints. Somehow, that’s the sight that causes my eyes to prick. The administrator told Janna’s dad there’s no psych ward here.
At first I think he’s asleep, but then he says, “Kermit?”
“And Patrick.” Patrick comes up beside me. He stands at the edge of the bed and squeezes Matt’s foot through the light blanket. “This is a stealth visit. We’re not supposed to be here, so we only have a minute. But we’re all here. The whole club. Anything you need, man. You hear me?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Matt says.
Patrick backs away, his eyes on the restraints. He looks as freaked out as I feel. “Anyway, I’ve got to, uh, go make sure no one saw us. I’ll see you. Get well. We need you.” And then he’s gone. I’m grateful and also not. But I’m in it now.
I perch on the edge of the visitor chair. It’s the first moment we’ve had to ourselves since it happened. He’s still groggy a bit, maybe from the meds wearing off. I don’t know what they’ve done to him—pumped his stomach? Flushed his system somehow? Given him an antidote? He’s quiet for a while, and I don’t have anything to say. Or at least, I don’t know where to begin. Maybe I have a lot to say, but I never know how to say it. Maybe that’s the whole problem.
“Are we going to break up?” Matt says.
“That’s what you’re worried about right now?”
“I always worry about it.”
That’s news to me. “You should focus on getting better,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”
“So we are?” he says. “You didn’t say no.”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, I don’t even know how to think about it right now.”
“Why would you want to stay with a loser like me?” he mutters. “I can’t do anything right.” The unspoken corollary pisses me off.
My fingers fumble toward his. “Stop. I’m really glad you didn’t die. I need you.”
“You do?” He looks like a little boy, all tucked in. Holding hands is awkward with his wrists tied to the bed, but I can’t let go.
“I don’t know how to survive without you.”
“Me either,” he says. “So what are we going to do?”
“You’re going to get better,” I tell him. “You’re going to come home and we’re going to have so many adventures.” I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s the right thing to say, probably.
“Are you feeling any better?”
“I don’t know,” he says, turning his head away. My heart blips. He’s in a safe place now, in a place where they won’t let him hurt himself, but it all still aches, to know he wanted to. In spite of everything. In spite of us.
“You don’t feel any different now? Compared to before?” The words slip out of me. Maybe it’s wrong to ask. Healing, we know, takes time.
“It didn’t feel like anything to me,” he says. “I don’t feel anything anymore.”