Kiss Me Captain (Emily and Maddie) novel Chapter 33

The hospital waiting room smells like industrial cleaner and bad decisions. I’m perched on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs designed by someone who clearly hates humanity, still wearing my jeans and team jacket from the hasty change in the car.

We’d pulled into a random parking garage, and I’d scrambled into street clothes while Mom kept watch, both of us pretending this was normal. Maddie’s phone is a live grenade in my hand.

I keep checking the screen every thirty seconds in case David or Hanna call back, in case there’s news, in case something—anything—breaks this terrible silence.

My mother sits beside me, her hand occasionally squeezing my knee in that universal maternal gesture that means I’m here but I have no idea what to say.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead like mechanical bees. A TV in the corner plays some medical drama with the volume too low to hear, which feels both ironic and deeply inappropriate.

The clock on the wall ticks forward with aggressive slowness. Each minute stretches into an hour. I count tiles on the floor—sixty-three from my chair to the nurses’ station.

Then I count them again. Still sixty-three. The universe remains unchanged by my desperate need for distraction.

“Sweetheart, do you want some water?” Mom asks for the third time. “Or coffee? There’s a vending machine down the hall.”

“I’m fine.” I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m whatever word exists at the far end of the spectrum from fine, probably in a language I don’t speak.

“Emily—”

“Mom, please.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I just need to sit here. I need to wait.”

She nods and goes quiet again. Her hand finds my knee once more, steady and warm. I want to apologize for snapping but the words won’t come.

Everything feels stuck—my throat, my thoughts, my entire ability to function like a normal human being.

Time performs some kind of cruel magic trick, simultaneously crawling and racing. Every minute feels like it contains multiple lifetimes.

I watch an old man shuffle to the vending machine and back. A couple argues quietly in Spanish near the bathroom.

Somewhere down the hall, a baby cries. The world keeps moving while mine has completely stopped.

When the nurse finally emerges through the double doors, I’m on my feet before my brain catches up with my body.

Maddie’s phone drops from my hand. Mom catches it reflexively, which is good because I’ve apparently forgotten how basic motor skills work.

“Family of Madison Reyes?” The nurse’s voice is professionally calm, like she announces devastating news several times per shift.

“Her parents are on their way,” I blurt out, already moving toward her. “They’re driving here now, they were an hour away when—they should be here soon. I’m her roommate. I have her phone in case they call. I’m Emily. Emily Harper.”

The nurse studies me with the kind of assessing look that suggests she’s mentally categorizing my relationship to the patient.

Roommate? Friend? Girl having a complete breakdown in the waiting room? All of the above?

“Ms. Reyes has been asking for you specifically,” she says after a pause that lasts approximately seventeen years.

“You can go back for a few minutes until her parents arrive. Just a few minutes, understand?”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely. Thank you.” I’m nodding too much, too fast, probably looking completely unhinged. I don’t care.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify