Racing the Sun(100)

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At around eleven p.m., Felisa insists I go to a hotel and get some sleep. I tell her I’m not going anywhere at this point and that she needs the rest. Lorenzo seems to agree—they aren’t spring chickens—and I promise to call her if anything changes.

About an hour after they leave, the doctor comes into the waiting room, looking for them.

I stand up and wave at him. He’s wiry and has bags under his eyes and a bad hairline and speaks in an overly monotonous voice, which I personally find strange for an Italian. His hand gestures are also minimal.

“Do you speak English?” I ask him since he’s only talked to Felisa in Italian.

He nods. “Yes, of course.”

“Bene,” I say. “I’m Derio . . . Desiderio Larosa’s girlfriend, Amber MacLean.”

He nods. “I was looking for the woman, Felisa.”

“She went to a hotel. I told her I would stay behind. How is he?”

He seems to think about that for a moment, and I gear up for some horrible news. Then he looks around and puts his hand on my shoulder. “He is in good condition now. Usually we just let in immediate family at this stage. But I think you are the closest thing to that. Would you like to come see him? He doesn’t look very pretty.”

I nod eagerly and the doctor leads me down the hall.

We stop outside the room and he opens the door.

The blood inside me runs cold.

Derio is lying in the hospital bed in a green hospital gown with an IV running into one arm, seemingly asleep. There’s a sling around his shoulder and his leg is elevated. The leg looks bad—really bad. It’s raised but hasn’t been placed into a cast yet. I can see many large pins sticking out of it, attached to an outer shell, like a cage. The skin itself is covered in layers of bandages.

The doctor nods at me. “We have set the bone this way while he’s here but we have to treat the burn before the leg can be put into a cast. It’s second-degree instead of third, thanks to the clothes he was wearing during the accident. Not many racers wear the right equipment, for fear it slows them down, but he did. We won’t need to do a skin graft after all. But because it hasn’t destroyed all of his nerves, he will be in a lot of pain. But his leg and shoulder will heal and become mobile again, with time. He’s a lucky man.” He looks at Derio, who is slowly waking up. “I hope you don’t mind that she’s here. I figured you wouldn’t since you were calling for her earlier.”

He was calling for me?

The doctor pats me on the shoulder and then leaves the room, leaving the door slightly open.

Suddenly, I feel scared. But when Derio sees me, his eyes light up like diamonds. The doctor was wrong. He still looks pretty. Actually, he looks gorgeous. He’ll always look like that in my eyes.

“Amber,” he says, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

“Don’t talk,” I tell him, coming over to his right side, which isn’t in the sling. I stop beside him, one hand on his arm, the other at my mouth because I’m not sure if I’m going to cry or laugh or if I have the strength to even breathe. Tears fill my eyes, my vision of him becoming blurry, before they spill down my cheeks. He’s so hurt. One side of his face is scratched raw along his cheekbone. Purple and red bruises flare out from his nose and eyes. His hair is greasy and seems to still have dirt in it. His lip is busted up. It’s almost too much for me to take in all at once, but I have to remind myself that it could have been worse.

You thought he was dead, I tell myself. But he’s full of life.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he croaks, coughing.

“Shhh,” I tell him, afraid to touch him anywhere except his arm, but his arm will do. I run my fingers down until I come to his hand. With effort, he wraps his fingers around mine. Despite everything, they are strong, warm, comforting.

“I must tell you,” he says, “that when you stepped inside this room, I thought I might have died. I thought I was in heaven.”

“You’re very much alive. How do you feel?”

“I am okay. I don’t feel much pain, just . . . it is uncomfortable. My pride is bruised but I will not suffer for it. The other man is dead.”

“I know,” I whisper, holding his hand tightly and feeling those tears prickling hot at the corners of my eyes. “I thought you were dead. I was confused about the accident. I came all the way here from Naples when I heard, expecting to see you in the morgue.”

“Would you have come if you knew I was alive?” he asks, regarding me warily.

“Of course I would have.” I bite my lip, taking a deep, deep breath. “Derio, I am so sorry for what I did to you. You have no idea how badly I wish I could take it all back. I was frustrated and lonely and lost and so damn tired, and I snapped. I just snapped. I couldn’t hold it in. I should have told you earlier, should have admitted that I was struggling and needed your help. But I didn’t want to bother you and I didn’t want to seem weak, like I couldn’t do it all. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to leave you, or the twins, I just didn’t know what else to do.” I feel lighter having said that, but I don’t know if it is enough. I stare at him, afraid.