61
Frankie Greenberg was sitting up, sipping cranberry juice through a straw, when Jesse stuck his head into her room.
“All right to come in?”
“Jesse,” she said, smiling.
Jesse walked to her bedside and cautiously planted a kiss on her forehead.
“I’m not fragile, you know,” she said.
“You could’ve fooled me.”
“My dad says you’ve been hanging around here a lot.”
Jesse pulled a chair alongside her bed and sat down. Most of the machines were gone. A lonely IV was still attached to the back of her hand.
“How are you feeling?”
“I have nothing to compare it to, but they tell me I could be feeling a whole lot worse.”
“You had us going.”
“That’s what Dad says.”
“You’ve got some color now.”
“And I didn’t before?”
“Does the expression ‘pale as a ghost’ mean anything to you?”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
“I still can’t believe Marisol’s dead. I feel awful.”
“We all do. He had just a sliver of an opening, and he somehow managed to jump through it.”
“You caught him?”
“Crow did.”
“But not without your help.”
Jesse smiled.
“I hear they’re flying you home,” he said.
“In the morning. Sometimes it’s good to work for a big studio.”
She looked at him.
“I feel that we’re incomplete, Jesse,” she said. “You and me. We were interrupted and now can’t find our way back.”
“Get well, Frankie. L.A. isn’t the moon.”
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I wish I felt like I had been lucky,” she said.
“You were incredibly lucky. He came within inches of killing you, too.”
“Then why am I so sad?”
“Because Marisol’s gone and you’re not. Survivor’s guilt.”
They were silent for a while.
“Will I ever see you again, Jesse?”
“Of course you will,” he said.
“You’re not just saying that?”
“I’m not just saying that.”
She leaned back into her pillows and closed her eyes. Soon she was asleep.
Before he left, he tenderly kissed her good-bye.