While You Were Gone: A Thought I Knew You Novella by Kate Moretti Read Free Book Online

on mine, an intimate gesture born of fear and courage and something else, the thread between us just like it was in the bar, a zinging current, an electric jolt that leaves my tongue loose and reckless.
    “Is this okay?” he asks, and I laugh. “No?” He moves his hand away from mine, and I grab it back, the tips of my fingers grasping at the tips of his.
    “I thought you were dead,” he says. “When the cops came and they loaded you in that ambulance, there was so much blood…” His voice trails off, and reflexively, I tap the bandage at my forehead and wince in pain.
    “Well, the head, I guess. How is the driver? Both drivers, I mean.” The back of my throat tastes rancid. “Did they…”
    “The cab driver is fine. You took the brunt of the impact. The driver of the other car, he ran a red light. He’s in the ICU, has had a few surgeries. Critical condition.”
    I wonder if he had a family, a child. I wonder if he’ll die that way, running a red light, trying to get home from work. I feel irrationally sad in a way that is stupid because the accident was his fault: he ran the red light. I try to conjure anger, but I can’t. The sadness sits, lumpy and foul in my throat.
    Perky Donna is back. “Dear,” she singsongs from the doorway. “The police are here. They’d like to talk to Mr. Randolf.” Greg jumps back, dropping my hand like it’s a hot iron, and he coughs, clears his throat.
    “The police? Why?” He wipes a palm on the knee of his khakis.
    “Don’t look so scared! What, are you a wanted man?” Donna bubbles up. “It’s only natural, right?”
    “Why natural?” I ask, absently smoothing my blankets down with my good hand, covering my exposed good leg.
    “Because Greg here pulled you out of that burning car.” She gives us both a wink. “You didn’t know? Your boyfriend saved your life.”

Chapter 4
    T he police visit is short. A single detective takes Greg’s statement. Greg hands him his license. The cop writes down the information and hands it back. I can barely focus on the conversation. Never mind that my visions swims, a thrumming pulses behind my eyes and around my ears, and it’s all I can do not to fall asleep, my heavy head bobbing my chin into my chest.
    I’m stunned at Greg’s heroics. He pulled me from a car? Turns out, he pulled the cabbie out too. A hero times two. Greg rushes through the description of events, and the officer nods and takes appropriate notes. The car caught on fire under the hood a minute or so after impact. Greg was able to get me out through the passenger-side back door. He pulled the cabbie, who was conscious but pretty shaken up, through the driver’s-side door. He thought I was dead, he tells the officer, and when he says this, he looks over at me.
    The officer clamps him on the shoulder like an old fraternity brother, an American good ole boy, and then it occurs to me that Greg is American. Hits me like the proverbial ton of bricks. You can tell in his accent, his soft but elongated oo ’s and ea ’s. Something slightly Long Island-ish yet less gum snapping than in the movies. He’s here on business, and he’s surely going home for his lucky underwear. I remember the conversation at the bar. He was here to give a training. For a week? What day is it? I can’t ask again; they’d wheel me straight down to neuro. I was in Faraday’s on Friday. I was out for about a day. Saturday, possibly Sunday.
    The detective asks him about where he lives, and he fumbles and says his license isn’t correct. He’s moved. He waves his arm around, like it’s no big deal, and the detective hands it back. He pockets his wallet, and they talk a bit about the States, California mostly, and I can feel my eyelids drooping. I wonder if Greg is from California, which might as well be another planet. My knowledge of the Golden State comes from Beach Boys songs and 90210 reruns on cable.
    The door clicks open, and I hear Greg say, “Thanks,” and