Page 4 of The Crush

There’s a cab twenty feet ahead, pulling over to the curb.

Once I jam past it, I’ll—

But my phone rings. It’s Joan. Someone swings a cab door open five feet in front of me. The wrong side—the traffic side, not the curb side.

Heart pounding terribly, I try to swerve, and I’m this close to making it when the door smacks my elbow, and bam.

My bones rattle. My head rings. I’m toppling off the bike, my foot slamming into the tire, my head smacking the pavement, all of New York sayingfuck youto me too.

Pain radiates down to my marrow.

Twenty seconds later, a man in purple is over me, lifting me up, carrying me to the sidewalk. Arms wrapped around me.

When the ambulance arrives five minutes later, he tells me he’ll meet me at the hospital.

Everything goes in and out of focus except for the screaming in my bones. And the wild thought that occurs to me—maybe it’s the pain or the adrenaline, but I’m not sorry I lost that fight with the car door.

2

ALL YOUR BROKEN BONES

Harlow

I don’t call my dad on the way to the hospital. But after the nurse starts my IV, Bridger’s standing by my bed in the emergency room, telling me, “Your dad will be here soon. I reached him.” He sounds so cool, so in control.

Like he can handle any crisis.

Including finding my father while he’s finagling.

And, evidently, getting into my room in the ER. I don’t ask how he pulled it off. But that’s what Dad’s told me Bridger does. Pulls things off. Gets things done.

“Why do people open doors into traffic?” I ask, my voice trembling more than I want it to. I don’t want him to think I’m weak.

A gentle smile moves his lips. “People are terrible. But you’re going to be fine, Harlow. Ian is on his way.”

I don’t care about Ian, though, or how Bridger tore him away from Marie or Cassie or Lianne. “Thank you for being there.”

“I’m glad I was,” he says.

I feel hazy. Warm all over. Whatever they put in this IV for my broken ankle is good.

“Come see me tomorrow?” I ask. Maybe it’s a plea. Hard to tell.

The stuff in the IV isreallygood.

Bridger doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tics. He’s wavering. His blue eyes are chased with conflict, his brow knitting.

I’m not above a little begging when I can blame it on the drugs. “Please,” I say with a frown. “It would make me feel better.”

He nods, resigned perhaps. “You’re a good negotiator,” he says, giving in.

I tuck the compliment into my pocket as he gives me his number. “If you need anything and can’t reach your dad.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’ve had Bridger’s number for some time. Dad gave it to me long ago—here’s Joan’s number, here’s Bridger’s number, here’s the studio number.

I’ve never used it, but now I have permission.

When a nurse comes in to tell me it’s time to cast my ankle, he wishes me well and leaves.