Chapter 21

Grayson

DAY 16

Thankfully, we’re not in England. The taxi ride from any of the London airports to the mansion is excruciating. In Seattle, it’s just a half hour taxi from the airport to the hospital. But still, that’s far too long for Isabella. She spends the whole ride on the edge of her seat, staring out the window with a frown. She grips the headrest of the front passenger seat from her place in the back with tight fingers.

“This is all my fault,” she whispers under her breath.

“No, it isn’t,” I say firmly. “You’ve already said you inspected the building, and the insurance is all up to date. Sometimes these things just happen.”

“It could have been prevented,” she says. “It could have been prevented. I should have prevented it.”

I hate to see her like this. Overcome with a feeling I’ve never had before, one I can’t name, I snatch her hand up in mine. “Look at me, Isabella. Seriously. It’s not your fault. You weren’t even in the country. You did everything that was your responsibility. You couldn’t have done any more.”

She lets her hand rest in mine for a sweet moment then pulls it away with a sigh. “I don’t know. There must have been something wrong. I should have seen it. I should have known. I was in that store less than a month ago.”

“It was an electrical problem, you said, right?”

She bites her lip. “Um-hm.”

“Well, you’re not an electrician. How were you to know if there was something wrong?”

“I can’t keep making excuses, Gray. It’s my store. There was a problem. People got hurt. I can’t explain it away. I just can’t.”

The sadness in her eyes is haunting. If only I knew some technique, some trick, the right words, anything, to take it all away. “You’re a good person. You didn’t mean for this to happen.”

She looks back out the window again. “But it did. It did, it did, it did.”

“Yes, but at least no one died.”

“Not yet,” she says darkly. “You never know. Someone could die in the hospital.” Then a whimper escapes her lips and she snatches up her iPhone from her purse. “I’m checking the news again. Maybe they have updates.” As the page loads, she repeats over and over, “Please let no one die, please let no one die….”

I wish it right along with her and realize how out of my depth I am. She holds so much responsibility with this business. It’s only now that fact hits me square in the face. How different her life is from mine. How small mine looks in comparison.

“Oh, thank god,” she says with a relieved exhale. “There’s an update here. No one’s died. They reached Natalie for comment. She said we’re going to investigate the whole thing and see what happened, and that I’m going up to the hospital.”

I watch her, seeing her in a whole new light. “You’re doing very well.”

She puts her iPhone back in her purse and stares back out the window. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say decisively. “Yes, you are.”

She looks up at me and for the first time since she heard of the fire, smiles a real smile. It’s small, and it’s tentative, but it’s real. “Thank you. I’m trying.”

“And succeeding.” I want to tell her all about how I see her now. All about how I understand what she’s been saying all along. About responsibility. About doing something more than drinking and partying. About life having some kind of meaning that I wasn’t seeing. But I can’t find the words. I’m not used to these kinds of conversations at all. Conversations where the words coming out of my mouth actually reflect what’s on the inside. I’m much more used to twisting words and toying with people’s feelings until they give me what they want. Having an agenda. I don’t have any agenda here except expressing what’s inside me. That feels weird. But even as I keep my mouth shut, the words long to spill out. I feel this tugging sensation in my chest, like something wants to come out of it and go toward her.

“Thank goodness,” she says as we turn into the street where the hospital is. The traffic has been jam-packed. “Thank you,” she says to the driver. She rummages in her purse and pays him.

Then we’re out of the taxi and running. She practically sprints along the sidewalk. Dodge this way, weave that way, around all the people. I could go faster than she does, but I follow just behind. She’s the leader here. This is her turf. I want to watch her in her element. It’s all new to me.

The check-in and elevator ride is a blur of frenzied activity. But just before the elevator opens on the third floor where we’ve been directed, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is wiry and frazzled. Her eyes have red rings around them. “Oh, fuck, I look like death.” She tries to push her hair back into some kind of submission, but it’s not playing along.

“You look beautiful,” I say, and I mean it. Sure, she’s not perfectly groomed. But that’s because she’s been trying like a madwoman to get here and couldn’t get much sleep on the plane. I’d much rather have thus than some dolled up girl with perfect hair and no responsibility. These thoughts are all new. Exhilarating.

“Yeah, right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” The elevator doors open and she clears her throat, pushes her shoulders back, and walks into the hallway.

I follow behind, an observer. I feel like an explorer, discovering new territory. She’s been “here”—not this hospital, but in this position of power and duty—a thousand times before. A seasoned veteran. We turn into the ward.

A nurse meets us outside the door as he comes out of the room. “Who are you here to see?” He looks frazzled, too, like he’s run off his feet.

“I’m Isabella Price,” she says in a measured tone. “I’m here to see the burn victims. It was my store in which the… incident happened.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen. “Are you sure you want to come in?” He lowers his voice. “You’ve been a hot topic of conversation in here. And not all of it’s flattering.”

God. I think I’d have turned running if it were me. But Isabella gives him a diplomatic smile. “I think that’s to be expected. I have to see them.”

The nurse raises his eyebrows as he opens the door. “Well, all right. Good luck.”

As we walk in, every head turns in our direction. I scan everything quickly. There are two beds, each with a patient. There are visitors, too, little groups of family and friends crowded around.

“That’s Isabella Price,” someone whispers.

A woman sitting in the corner on a visitor’s chair, next to the bed where a teenage girl plays on her phone with headphones on, pushes herself up on the chair arms to standing. She glares at Isabella and marches over. “Miss Price?” She sticks out her hand.

The teenage girl glances up, rolls her eyes, and looks back down at her phone.

“Hello,” Isabella says. She shakes the woman’s hand, and I can see the woman shakes so hard it must be bone crushing. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Well, I’m not pleased to meet you,” the woman says. “Not at all.”

“Don’t you talk to her like that,” I say, before I’ve even thought.

Isabella turns to glare at me. “I’ll handle this, thank you,” she says under her breath. Then she turns back to the woman with an all concerned smile. “I can understand we’re not meeting in the most ideal of situations.”

“The most ideal of situations?” the woman repeats, fury bubbling in her voice. “This is a disaster! My daughter was shopping in your damn store when the explosion went off. She now has burns all over her leg and won’t be able to walk for a week. And she’ll never be able to wear short clothes again, unless she wants the whole world to stare at her. That’s all your fault.” She pokes Isabella in the chest.

It takes all of my strength not to holler. But I keep my hands at my sides and let Isabella take care of it.

“I am so sorry about your daughter,” Isabella says, and the weight in her voice makes everyone know she means it. She gestures toward the teen. “Is that her over there?”

“Yes,” the woman says defiantly. She seems taken aback, like she was expecting Isabella to defend herself, and then she could unleash a tirade of abuse.

“May I speak to her?”

“I don’t think—”

The teen now has her headphones in her lap. “Yes,” she says.

“This is the owner of the store, Melody,” her mother replies in a patronizing tone. “The woman whose negligence got you hurt.”

Melody rolls her eyes. “Yes, Mom, I know. I want to ask her a question.”

I feel so protective of Isabella I want to jump in front of her and screen everybody before they can get to her. You have a question? Ask me first. You have an insult to sling? Sling it at me and I’ll make you regret trying to ever hurt her. But I know she’d be furious if I did such a thing.

She advances toward the teen with a friendly, open face. “Hello, Melody,” she says. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you. If you have any questions about what happened, I’ll do my best to answer as much as I can for you.”

“Oh!” The mother throws her hands up in the air. “How about answering how the hell you can be so irresponsible to let this happen?”

“Shut up, Mom!” Melody hisses, embarrassed.

“It’s a valid question,” Isabella says. “A very valid question. I’m devastated this has happened too, for our employees and our customers. We checked all the plans and tested the electricity. We have insurance, as well, of course.”

“You’d better,” the mother says, “because you’re going to be needing a lot of money to cover these expenses.”

I see Isabella stiffen. I know what’s going through her mind. All these people will sue her for millions, and her father’s business will die, with or without my cash injection.

“I can understand your feelings,” Isabella says. “We’re going to do a full investigation to find out exactly what happened and address any problems.”

“You sound like a sleazy politician,” the mother says with disgust.

A silence falls around us. Isabella holds her head high, but I see as she clasps her hands behind her back that they’re shaking a little.

“I just wanted to ask something,” Melody says.

I hope against hope it’s not a question that’ll bring Isabella tumbling down. If it is, I won’t be able to hold myself back from protecting her. I’ll take her in my arms and tell everyone she’s doing her absolute best and they all have to leave her alone.

“Go ahead,” Isabella replies steadily.

“You know that purply-red mascara you stock?” Melody asks. “I really want some. That’s why I was in the store. No one else has it. Do you think you can get some for me?”

“Melody, don’t be ridiculous,” her mother snaps. “How can you think about makeup at a time like this?”

“The doctor said the burns would heal, and it’ll look almost normal.” Melody looks up at Isabella. “Please, that’s my favorite mascara, and I ran out last week.”

“Of course, I’ll do that for you,” Isabella says. “What other makeup do you like? I’ll bring you a whole set.”

Melody’s face lights up. “You will? Oh my gosh, well, I like the Revlon lipstick in color 3A, and…”

I watch Isabella talking to the girl and writing all the makeup products down on her phone.

Yeah.

This woman is really something special.