Page 81 of Back Outside Edge

"Oh my god," she gushes. "I'm like your biggest fan. You were so close to getting that quint last year. It was amazing. You're amazing."

Well, this is a good sign. "Thank you," I say. "I really appreciate that." Maybe she's somehow missed the news this week, and I'm still in her good graces.

"And I'm sure you had a very good reason for punching Alexandre Boudreaux," she adds. "He seems like such a dick."

Ok, maybe she has heard the news. Maybe my fans don't all hate me. That would be nice. "Yeah, he can be, um... But we both messed up. It's all getting dropped." I hope to god sometime soon. "It was a misunderstanding." I might as well be graceful about it.

"Wait, oh my god." Her voice is suddenly breathless, hushed. "Evan Marquez is the mystery man, isn't he?" This is clearly a dream come true for her, getting to confirm all the gossip.

This one, though, will go in my favor. I've been trying so hard to keep Evan uninvolved, but if it means I can get to him, I'm willing to do just about anything.

And the hospital has been discreet so far. She was, until she learned who I was. "This can't make it to the press, because I'm trying really hard to keep him out of it. But, yes. Things were kind of chaotic—" It's one way of describing it. "—when he fell and I haven't been able to figure out how to get in touch with him. And since I'm not identifying him, nobody's updating me."

"Oh god, that's so sad." She sounds genuinely sympathetic, and now I really like this woman.

"Thank you." I'm still using my PR voice, but I mean it. "I know you can't give me any details, and I truly respect that, but it would be so helpful if you could just—help me get to him. I just arrived in New York, and I’m trying to find him.”

"I can’t give you his room number," she answers, but then her voice goes softer, almost a whisper. Which means she's going to help me. Oh, thank fuck. “But I think I can come up with an alternative.”

It’s far more than I’d hoped for. "You are my favorite person in the world," I answer, and I mean it. "What's your name? I will bring you an autographed anything you want."

"Bridget," she giggles. "I'm at the front desk. Just ask for me when you arrive, ok?"

"I will absolutely do that. Will you still be there in an hour?"

By the time I hang up, my heart is pounding. I'm going to see Evan again.

My phone rings as Bridget is leading me up to Evan's door. I want to ignore it, but it could be one of my parents. I didn't tell them where I was going. They might be worried if they stopped by to see me and I wasn't home.

It could be TAFS informing me I’m back on the team. I doubt it, after only a week, but I can hope.

So I pause, motioning for Bridget to wait for a second. She does, tapping her foot, impatient, but who could blame her? I'm impatient too. Knowing Evan is on the other side of the door makes every cell in my body desperate to walk through it.

But when I fish my phone out of my pocket, my heart stops. The name on the screen is Evan Marquez. My knees go weak, and I'm clutching the doorframe, about to fall over, I'm so relieved.

Thank fuck.

He's calling me. He doesn’t hate me.

Instead of answering the phone, I let go of the frame and open the door, not bothering to knock.

Bridget tries to stop me, saying something about how he might be sleeping. How she should go in first, make sure it’s ok. I ignore her and step through.

And there's my Evan. Looking pale. Washed out. Eyes closed. Nothing like his usual vibrant self. He has a bandage stuck to one side of his head, and I wince. My eyes blur for a moment, a puddle of red growing around him in my memory. I blink myself back to the present, raking his still form with my gaze.

I can't make out any other obvious damage, but there's a blanket covering him, and one side has a bigger lump underneath it. A cast?

His phone is sitting on his chest, on speakerphone, still ringing. So is mine, all but forgotten in my hand. Rather than answer a call from ten feet away, I hang up, glancing around.

It’s a private room, not large, but not tiny, with a big window along one wall. The sill and every other horizontal surface in the room is covered in flowers—enough that the room smells like a meadow instead of sick people.

A woman is sitting beside his bed, reading. His mother, I’m sure.

Evan’s eyes open as I stand, hesitant, at the door. He frowns down at his phone, then his head turns slowly towards me. Dark rings are etched around his sunken eyes. I want to fall at his feet and cry. Has it been like this for him all week? Without me here to comfort him? To stay by his side? I am the worst.

When he sees me, his eyes rake over me, taking me in, just as I did him. And my heart stops again when a hint of light enters their dull depths. He even manages something like the beginning of a smile. "Stefan," he says, and my name sounds like an exhale of gratitude. "You came."

Bridget lets out a little squeak, then I hear her clap her hands over her mouth. I don't bother to look at her. Just stride forward until I'm standing next to Evan's bed. And then kneeling next to it, clasping his hand and bowing my head over it. "Fuck, Evan, I'm so sorry."