Reckless by Winter Renshaw Read Free Book Online

on a Lifetime movie about a psycho nanny because I’m feeling like a classy broad tonight. No sooner do the opening credits roll when I get a text alert on my phone. Sitting up, I slide the phone across the coffee table and bring it close.
    NATHAN: DASH HAD AN ACCIDENT. MEET ME AT THE GRACETOWN EMERGENCY ROOM.
    My heart leaps into my throat, my face flushing and my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, going every which direction. Scrambling off the couch, I run toward the kitchen, tossing my phone in my purse and yanking my keys off the hook by the back door.
    A minute later, my eyes fill with hot tears that cloud my vision, and I’m starting the engine of my SUV and punching the garage door opener in the visor above my head. Only when my right foot presses into the brake pedal do I realize I’m shoeless.
    Quickly checking my backseat, I spot a pair of Dash’s baseball cleats. They’re smelly and mud-covered, but he’s got big feet, and I’m willing to bet they’ll fit. I’ll slip them on when I get there. Seconds later, I’m tearing out of the driveway, burning rubber down Sycamore Street and trying to remember how to get to the Gracetown ER. My boys are never sick. They never get hurt. I pride myself on ensuring they’re the healthiest, most accident-free boys this side of the Mississippi.
    White-knuckling it the entire way, I find a few signs and follow them to Gracetown. By the time I arrive, I have zero recollection of the drive there. Veering into a close parking spot in the front row, I almost forget to shift into park before I shut off the engine.
    A minute later, I’m run-walking toward the sliding doors with the bright red letters that read EMERGENCY above them. My stomach is twisted and my throat is dry. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I can’t think.
    The clip-clomp of the baseball cleats on my feet annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me, but I try to tune them out. I’m sure I look ridiculous. Cleats. Yoga pants. Neon orange runner’s tank top. Hot purple sports bra underneath. Zero makeup. Thick librarian glasses. Hair piled into a messy knot on top of my head.
    But none of that matters.
    I have to find my son.
    I approach the check-in desk and I’m met with a tired stare from an overworked receptionist.
    “May I help you?” she asks, her words robotic.
    “Yes,” I say, panting. “I’m Maren Greene. Dashiell Greene’s mother.”
    She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
    “He’s here. My husband – my ex -husband – said he’s here. I need to see him. Where is he? I need to go to him.” My words are frantic, but not nearly as frantic as the uncontrollable rate at which my heart is pounding in my chest.
    The receptionist yawns, then slowly reaches for her computer mouse, squinting at the screen before her.
    I wait, unable to stand still and left cleat tapping on the tile floor. Glancing around, the room is full of people waiting, some half-asleep, some clutching appendages, others staring dead-eyed at the TV mounted in the corner and tuned to some sports channel.
    My fingers drum against the counter and I stare at the receptionist harder, as if that’s enough to make her move a little faster.
    “What was the name again?” she asks, tongue clucking as she talks.
    “Dashiell,” I say. “Two Ls.”
    She types his name with her two pointer fingers and squints harder at the screen. “I’m not seeing anything.”
    “D-A-S-H-I-E-L-L,” I say slowly, enunciating each letter with perfection.
    “Oh.” The woman lifts her hand to her lips. “I wasn’t putting the I in there.”
    “The I is silent,” I say.
    She types it in again and then shakes her head. “Still not seeing it.”
    “Oh, for the love of God.” I rest my palm across my forehead, chin tucked and muttering under my breath. “Greene has an E on the end.”
    “Is there a problem here?” A man’s voice asks from behind me. The take-charge boom in his question makes the receptionist sit up straighter. I