Chapter 16

The phone call came at around four in the morning. Quentin’s phone buzzed from the kitchen counter. The familiar noise jostled him awake, atop his cloud-like bed, with his arms around Charlotte, who smelled angelic, like lavender. He inhaled a final scent of her before lifting his legs gently from beneath the sheets and walking, naked, toward the kitchen. The air was eerie and ghost-like, as it was just before dawn. He shivered, wishing he’d put on clothes. Fall was coming on fast.

When he saw who was calling him, panic immediately flooded his veins. He grasped the phone.

“Kate. What’s going on?” His words were harsh, raspy. He found it difficult to breathe.

“It’s Morgan,” Kate cried. “We’re at the hospital. I don’t know. She woke me up. She was having trouble breathing.”

“What the fuck?” Quentin breathed, leaning heavily against the counter. He felt his knees might give way beneath him, sending him to the ground.

“The doctors are saying it’s an allergic reaction to something,” Kate continued, sounding hysterical. “They’re doing more tests right now. You didn’t give her anything—anything she’s—”

“She’s not allergic to anything!” Quentin cried, pounding his fist on the counter. “We’ve had all those fucking tests. And they said—”

“Kids change, Q,” Kate whispered. “Just get here as soon as you can, all right? They’re going to put her back to sleep, soon, and run more tests. It’s been… well… it’s been a hideous hour.”

“I’m on my way,” Quentin said curtly. He smashed the phone down and sped toward his bedroom, where he slipped an old grunge band T-shirt over his torso, donned boxers, and a pair of jeans. Then he turned to face Charlotte, a glittering, slumbering angel between his sheets.

Fuck. This was all happening at the worst possible time. His emotions for this gorgeous girl seemed to recede, like the tide, replaced with his panic. What was he doing? He had to get to the hospital. He had to focus on being a father, an editor. He couldn’t involve himself with this girl.

Everything seemed crystal clear at four in the morning.

He leaned his hand against her naked shoulder, jostling her slightly. Her eyelashes parted, surprised, and she blinked up at him, her face taking on a look of trust. “What time is it?” she murmured, tucking herself deeper into the sheets. “And why are you already dressed?”

A jolt of emotion passed through him. Just let her stay in bed. Let her into your life.

“You have to leave. Now,” Quentin said, his words curt. “I have to head to the hospital. There’s been an emergency.”

The chill of him caused Charlotte to rise swiftly, no longer making eye contact. Standing naked, poised, she hunted for her clothes and then donned them swiftly, clearly confused. Quentin felt sliced down the center, yearning to wrap his tired arms around her impossibly thin waist. He stood sullenly in the kitchen, his mind racing. His feet itched for the trek to the hospital.

Charlotte passed before him, fully dressed, her eyebrows diagonal, almost cartoonish above her eyes. The gray light of the coming morning gave her a ghost-like appearance. Her perfect lips parted, hunting for an explanation. But after shaking her head a final time, she dropped her chin, shaking it tenderly. Her body language said there was no use.

Finally, she burst toward the door, without speaking, and entered the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar. Quentin could hear the soft padding of her feet as she found safety and solace, alone. And the moment her door clicked closed, he throttled toward his keys and wallet, grabbed his leather jacket, and fled from the apartment building, already sensing it was too late.

Emotions were dangerous. And his growing emotions for Charlotte needed to be squelched immediately. Already, he’d probably poisoned his daughter with something she was newly allergic to; he’d not been there when she needed him most. And he’d already abandoned much of his upright affairs at the magazine, insisting to Maggie that the non-fraternization policy was all-powerful, while fucking an intern, of all people.

Jesus. What was he doing?

Outside, he miraculously found a taxi immediately, hailing it with a single dart of his arm. The driver took him to the hospital, blasting past the still-lit streets, making him feel outside of time.

“It’s going to be chilly soon,” the taxi driver told him, demonstrating a fake shiver. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Quentin didn’t answer.

The taxi skirted in front of the hospital minutes later. Quentin smacked several bills into the driver’s hand, probably too many, and then blasted into the hospital doors, pressing at the fingerprint-spattered glass. He fled down the hall, listening to the chorus of hospital machines, beeping from room to room, before finding the waiting room of the emergency area. His stunning, fatigued ex-wife was slumped in a far chair, her spider legs in strange angles in front of her. Tears slipped down her cheeks.

In this moment, Quentin understood: this was real. This was happening. Their baby girl.

Kate stood up silently and wrapped her arms around his chest, giving him the first hug they’d shared since Morgan had been an infant. She felt unfamiliar, foreign. But after Charlotte’s quick rush away, he was grateful for someone to cling to.

“Do they know anything?” Quentin asked.

“Just that she’s going to be fine. We got here in time,” Kate whispered, her voice raspy. “And they think she’s allergic to shellfish. I know she doesn’t eat it, but—“

“But the Chinese restaurant. It cooks everything with everything else,” Quentin said, fearing the worst. “Jesus. I’m so, so sorry. You always tell me not to fucking order from there.” He gasped slightly, conscious that he’d nearly destroyed the one thing he held dear. “Morgan is paying for my idiocy. Christ.”

Kate slipped her hand across his shoulder, kneading at his bones. “Shh. There’s no use feeling this way right now. She’ll be awake in about an hour, they said, and we can go in and talk to her.”

A man appeared beside them, then. He was broad-shouldered, with blond hair and a blond mustache, wearing a black turtleneck and tan pants. He pressed a coffee cup into Kate’s hands, whispering into her ear, “You should sit down, Kate. You’re visibly shaking.”

Curious, Quentin’s eyebrows met in the middle. His head tilting, he began to form the question. Who was this asshole, whispering into his ex-wife’s ear?

The man skirted his now-free hand forward, shaking Quentin’s. He flashed a winning, Wall Street smile. “Hi, there. I hoped we’d meet under better circumstances. I’m Jason. Jason Wiley.”

Quentin had forgotten about Kate’s new boyfriend. Momentarily, his eyes flashed toward her. The man’s grip was stern, heavy, wanting to send a message.

Quentin gave him a half-smile. “Good to meet you. Thanks for taking care of Kate until I could get here.”

“Sure. As you know, we were planning on doing the introduction this week. I can’t wait to meet little Morgan,” Jason said, clearly trying to say the right words, so as not to get on the father’s bad side. “This stuff… this is no one’s fault.”

Quentin nodded, although he didn’t agree. His stomach held a brick of guilt. He excused himself from the couple, watching side-eyed as Jason slipped his arm around Kate’s thin shoulders, comforting her. But Quentin was a lone wolf; he didn’t need that kind of solace. His entire world was his daughter.

He bought a burnt cup of coffee and paced near the front desk, where they’d call their names soon, telling them Morgan was ready to see them. Although he didn’t ask for it, he still felt the image of Charlotte pass through his mind, a reminder of how frightened she probably was, right then. He’d literally kicked her from his bed at four in the morning, without an explanation. He’d probably made her feel two inches tall.

But whatever. Treating her this coldly was essential, ridding her of any lingering emotion for him. In a week’s time, she’d be screwing some barista in Brooklyn, like all the other twenty-somethings in New York. He’d be a passing memory, a story she could tell her friends. They wouldn’t even say hello in the hallways. And perhaps Morgan would forget about her, as well.

“Morgan McDonnell!” the woman at the front desk squeaked out, sending Quentin rushing toward her. Kate wasn’t far behind, leaving Jason with two steaming coffee cups and a ripped-up copy of Golf Digest. She shivered, placing her hand on Quentin’s back.

“Can we see her?” Quentin asked the woman.

“The doctor’s on his way out to speak with you,” the lady said, her words blasé. “Wait here.”

Quentin and Kate stood like people waiting for a train, their eyes at the door. They felt the rush of the doctor’s feet before they actually saw him, listening to the rushing taps of his feet across the linoleum floor. Quentin couldn’t control his racing heart.

Doctor Andrews was balding, with graying, blue skin, and sad, tiny eyes. His large hands were confident, drawn together at his chest. He greeted them both, Kate for the second time, and Quentin for the first. “You must be the father.”

He led them through the double, white doors, through the hallways.

“She’s conscious, now,” he told them. “We’ve reduced the allergic reaction, and she can breathe on her own again. Honestly, the shellfish was in trace amounts, which definitely saved her life. But I would avoid any trips to this restaurant—or any other dodgy place in the future.”

“Of course,” Quentin said firmly, wanting to instill the fact that he was a good father. “If I only would have known—”

Dr. Andrews opened the final door in the hallway, revealing his tiny daughter, with her blond hair whipped back on the pillow, her large eyes hunting the room, and a little tube in her arm. Her vital signs blasted on three different screens around her, dwarfing her. Immediately, Quentin’s chest felt squeezed.

“Hi, Daddy!” Morgan said, her voice bright. “Check it out! I’m a robot!”

“Ha,” Quentin said, trying to yank back his tears. “Finally, you’ve beat the humans at their own game. You don’t need us any longer. You’re bionic.”

Morgan giggled, trying to lift herself to a seating position, before failing from fatigue. “I’m so, so tired, Daddy,” she murmured. “And they said I can’t even go home till tomorrow.”

“It’s for the best,” Kate interjected, always the voice of reason. “They want to monitor you. Make sure you’re not sick anymore.”

Dr. Andrews appeared behind them, then, excusing himself. He bowed toward the hallway, explaining, “Just had an emergency down the hall. But you can reach me via the front desk. Morgan will be moved later this afternoon to a smaller room, without the machines. And then, as she’s already told you, we’ll release her tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Doc,” Quentin said firmly, making intense eye contact with the man. “This means more than you could possibly know.”

He returned to his daughter, sliding into a chair beside her bed and grabbing onto her little, chilly hand. She gave him a tight smile, revealing chapped lips. “Daddy, I just couldn’t breathe. It was stupid. And now, I won’t be able to practice for my piano competition today. I’ll fall behind!”

“One day off from practice isn’t going to kill your chances,” Quentin said, laughing. “Trust me. I didn’t practice for two weeks before I performed at Madison Square Garden, and I killed it.”

“You were a rock star, Daddy. Not a classically trained musician. I’m sure you made some mistakes,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

“Somebody hasn’t lost her spunk,” Quentin said, turning toward Kate and grinning madly. His heart fluttered with love for his daughter. She was going to be all right.

Kate appeared in the seat on the other side of the bed, taking Morgan’s other hand and rubbing at it. Wrinkles and darkness formed under her eyes, probably from not applying makeup before racing to the hospital. It was strange seeing time make its way across her face, especially when she took such care not to show it.

“Daddy, are you going to work today?” Morgan asked him then, her voice growing softer.

“Not unless you want me to,” Quentin said firmly, already divorcing himself from his tight schedule of meetings. This was more important. This was everything.

“No. Stay here. Watch cartoons with me,” Morgan said, her words insistent. “Please?”

“Of course, darling. I owe it to you,” Quentin murmured, leaning forward and kissing her palm softly. “I wouldn’t leave your side today for the world.”