65

---

The morning is bleary, the kind of March day where the sky looks like a dirty old sponge, all gray and full of unshed rain. It’s the kind of morning where you’d stay in bed, but here I am, awake in the sterile hospital room that’s become my little island. The walls are the color of weak tea, probably meant to be soothing, but they just look sick to me. My bed’s a jumble of white sheets, like ice floes in a bleached sea, and there’s the constant beep of the heart monitor, an annoying reminder that I’m still here, still… broken.

A voice cuts through the fog of the morning, sharp and scared, “She’s my granddaughter too, Rachel! You can’t just keep me from her!” That voice, it’s like an itch deep in my ear, one I can’t scratch away. Who even is that?

The door to my room bursts open, and this woman storms in like she’s leading a parade. Behind her, Mom’s trying to grab her arm, her face all pinched and desperate, like she’s trying to stuff a genie back into a bottle.

I’ve never seen this woman before, but she’s got Mom’s eyes, the same stormy orange-brown, like a sandstorm you don’t want to mess with. Her hair’s a silver halo, kinda wild, like it’s trying to escape from her head. She’s wearing this long coat with a pattern that looks like someone threw a bunch of coffee beans at it, and she’s got these shoes on, big black heels that click on the floor like an accusation.

“Sam? Samantha, you are Samantha, right?” Her voice is deep, like when you hear music through a wall, all bass and no treble, but it has scratch to it, not quite the way that Fury Forge’s voice scratches from the cigarettes, but something a little hoarser. Like yelling. She’s got this look on her face, like she’s sizing me up and finding me wanting.

I nod, not sure what else to do. My heart’s doing this weird little jig in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s from surprise or something else. Fear? Annoyance? Maybe both.

Mom finally gets a word in, her voice all tight, “Sam, this is… this is your maternal grandmother, Camilla de Leon.”

Grandmother? That word feels foreign, like a coin from a country I’ve never been to. I mean, I know I have a grandma, Leah. But I’ve never even heard the name Camilla before. Am I Hispanic? Her name sounds… Hispanic. Am I 1/4 mixed?

“I’m not just a name on a birth certificate, Rachel. I’m her family,” Camilla declares, her eyes never leaving mine. It’s like she’s throwing down a gauntlet, daring someone to argue with her. “Please, you can call me Mom-Mom or Cammy if you want, dear.”

My eyes flick back and forth between my Mom, who looks like she’d rather have a bullet hole in – who looks extremely mortified, and Camilla, who looks like she could bore through solid steel with her glare.

Mom looks like she’s swallowed something sour. “We don’t need to do this here, not now.”

But Camilla isn’t backing down. “No, we will do this here, and we will do this now. I have as much right to be a part of her life as you do. Do I need to get my lawyer?”

I feel like I’m watching a tennis match, my head bouncing back and forth between them. This isn’t what I need right now. I need quiet, I need peace, I need to not have my room feel like a battlefield. I scrunch my body up like the whole thing’s eaten a lemon.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but can we not do this here?” My voice sounds small, even to my own ears, drowned out by the adult problems filling the room.

Camilla turns her gaze to me, and there’s something soft there for a moment, something almost like regret. “I’m sorry, Samantha. I didn’t come here to cause you more distress. I just… I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re okay.”

She reaches out a hand, like she’s offering peace, but her eyes, they’re still hard, still fighting some invisible war. Her glasses are big and round, her jewelry chunky.

Mom’s hands are fists at her sides, and she looks like she wants to say a million things but can’t find the words for any of them. Instead, she takes a step back, like she’s surrendering the field. “Fine. But if you touch a hair on… her… body, or, G-d forbid, bring him up, then I am telling you right now, I will hunt for a restraining order and I won’t rest until we get one.”

Camilla nods, satisfied. “Don’t worry, Rachel. I want as little to do with him as you do. Jerry and I are very happy together these days, I don’t need to be reminded about him.”

“Can I ask who we’re pretending to talk around?” I cut through, still flicking my eyes between one, then the other.

“Let’s just say Morris’s counterpart is not quite the same degree of gentleman, darling,” Camilla says, cutting off my Mom before she can give a less poetic-sounding answer. “And it’s for the best that you never meet him, that much Rachel and I can agree on.”

“Well. I’ll be just down the hall if anyone needs me,” my Mom harrumphs, adjusting herself, straightening her back, and shuffling her purse around on her shoulders. “Sam, if you don’t want to talk to Camilla, you don’t have to.”

“Don’t talk about me in the third person, Rachel, I’m right here,” Camilla bites back, almost literally snapping her teeth at my Mom.

“Can you two quit it? You have a half-dead 14-and-five-sixths-year-old to be keeping in mind,” I interrupt, making the two of them look sheepish for a split second.

Then, my Mom leaves. I’m left with this stranger who shares my blood, feeling the weight of her expectations, her desires, her need to be a part of my life. And I don’t know what to do with that, not yet.

Camilla perches on the edge of the visitor’s chair like a bird about to take flight, all nervous energy and twitchy movements. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands together. Her rings click against each other softly, a tiny, metallic symphony that’s weirdly rhythmic.

“Are you Hispanic, because your name is extremely Hispanic,” I half-ask, half-breathe, the words just tumbling out without any of the usual filters I might have had if my brain wasn’t still scrambled from… everything.

She seems taken aback for a second, then chuckles. “Yes, I am. On my mother’s side, the Fernandes line traces back to Brazil after the expulsion, you know, the Alhambra Decree. And the de Leons, well, they stayed in Spain a little longer before coming to America in the 19th century.”

I can’t say I’m familiar with the Alhambra Decree but I make a mental note to look it up later. I have something much more pressing in mind.

“So, does that mean I’m mixed?” I ask, unsure if I’m saying it in jest or not. I’m grappling with this new piece of my identity puzzle, trying to fit it alongside every other bit I’ve collected over the years.

“In the definitions that you’d use in America, well… It’s complicated,” she says, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “But in a way, yes. You’re a tapestry of cultures, Samantha. A beautiful blend.”

That word — tapestry — makes me think of something intricate and colorful, something with history. I’m not sure how to feel about that yet. I’m certainly a patchwork of various shades of white, most of which by now is scar tissue.

The room is too quiet after that, the kind of quiet that’s loud, filled with the things that aren’t being said. Camilla breaks it by asking me about school, my hobbies, my friends. It’s like she’s trying to download my entire life with a few questions.

“I like to read,” I start, sticking to safe topics. “And I used to play a lot of soccer. Well, I did. Before…”

She nods, encouraging me to go on. “That’s wonderful. And your friends? Tell me about them.”

I think of Lily and Marcus, of the Young Defenders, of Jordan. How can I explain any of them without revealing too much? “They’re… great. Supportive. Lily’s been collecting my homework for me while I’ve been in here,” I say, offering a sanitized version of my life. “Most of my friends just grew up on my street. Slowly, uh, putting myself out there.”

“And what about after school? Any… special activities?” Camilla asks, and there’s something probing in her gaze, like she’s searching for something more than what I’m saying.

I shift uncomfortably, picking at the edge of my hospital blanket. “Just… normal stuff. Homework, hanging out, you know. Not much nowadays, of course.”

She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t buy it. There’s a shrewdness in her eyes that tells me she’s used to digging deeper, to finding out the things people try to hide. I’m sure she’s not fooled for a second, but is it a ‘my granddaughter is a superhero’ not fooled, or a ‘my granddaughter does drugs and smokes weed’ not fooled? I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I really don’t want to ask.

We continue the dance of conversation, me sidestepping any mention of Bloodhound, of the real reasons I’m here. She doesn’t push too hard, thankfully, but there’s a persistence in her that tells me she’s not going to give up easily.

The room feels smaller with every question, the air thicker. I can’t tell if she’s being genuinely friendly or if this is some kind of interrogation. Either way, I’m on guard, playing the part of the normal teenager as best as I can.

But I’m not normal, am I? I haven’t been since the day I got these… powers. And sitting here with Camilla, with her questions and her curiosity, I’ve never felt more like an outsider.

The conversation eventually slows, and there’s a lull that feels almost comfortable. Camilla sits back, studying me with a thoughtful expression.

“You’re a lot like your mother, you know. Strong. Determined.” There’s a note of pride in her voice, and it catches me off guard. “She’s always been her own person, despite everything.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, to the sudden warmth in her words. So I just nod, and we sit in silence, the space between us filled with the unsaid, with the history that’s still a mystery to me.

The silence stretches between us, a gulf filled with unspoken histories and half-secrets. I break it, my curiosity a live wire zapping through the caution. “Can you tell me about my grandfather?” I ask, the words out before I can think better of it.

Camilla’s face closes up like a shop shutter coming down. “That’s not a man you need to know about, Samantha,” she says, her voice suddenly cold, like winter had walked into the room.

“But if you’re going to pry into my life, don’t I get to know about yours?” I press, not ready to let it go, feeling a rebellious spark flicker to life inside me. “Isn’t that fair?”

Her mouth thins into a line, a dam holding back a flood. “Your mother and I don’t see eye to eye on many things. Obviously. But one of the few things we can agree on is that you shouldn’t be exposed to that man. It’s easier to pretend you only have the one,” she says after about a minute of harried silence, her tone final. But I can see the shadows that pass behind her eyes, ghosts of old, maybe not quite forgotten battles.

Was he violent? Is that the big secret?

Did I get that from him?

I let out a sigh, knowing I won’t get more from her on this, not now anyway. “Okay, then what about Mom? What was she like growing up? What was it like in the… household? We can do a little pen pal thing. Notes for notes.”

Camilla’s face softens, a crack in the armor. She smiles, but it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “Rachel was… she was a firecracker. Always asking questions, always pushing boundaries. Our home… it was a place of passion and learning, and yes, some conflict. But we loved deeply, even when we struggled to show it.”

I can almost picture it, this vibrant, chaotic household that shaped my mom into the person she is, the person who’s trying so hard to give me a different, more peaceful life. I’m sure if I asked my mom she’d have a much different way of seeing things. So I’m not sure if I’m going to ask her.

“And you, Camilla? What are you like, besides being… you?” I ask. “I mean, you know all there is to know about me. What’s there to know about my intimidating grandma?”

She laughs at that, a rich sound that seems to fill the room. “I’m many things, Samantha. I’m a lover of books, of history. I’m a fighter when I need to be, and yes, maybe a bit intimidating. I’ve had to be, to survive in this world.”

I nod, not sure whether to trust her own self assessment. There has to be a good reason why I’ve never heard her name before. “And now you’re here, in my life. What do you want from me? I mean, what are you expecting?”

Camilla leans forward, her hands clasped together again. “I want to be part of your life, to share in your joys and your struggles. I want to be your grandmother, if you’ll let me.”

I’m silent for a moment, weighing her words, the offer. It’s tempting, to have another person in my corner, especially one as obviously strong as Camilla. But how much trust should I be putting in her? How much to my mom? How do I divvy it up?

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally, and she nods, like that’s all she can ask for.

The room feels different now, the air lighter somehow, like we’ve reached some kind of understanding, tentative as it might be. And as she stands to leave, Camilla does something unexpected. She bends down and kisses the top of my head, her sallow, dry lips pressed up against my bald scalp.

“Get well soon, Samantha. There’s a whole world out there waiting for you,” she says, and then she’s gone, her heels clacking down the hallway.

I’m left feeling strangely empty and full at the same time, like there’s a tapeworm in my stomach but I just feasted on something I didn’t know I was hungry for. Pop-Pop Moe, I don’t know if he’s where I got my fight from. I’m sure he’s cracked a couple of skulls when he needed to, but him, and my grandma – and Mom-Mom Leah – are they where my sickness came from? I can’t imagine it. It has to be from this uncovered, ancient artifact. The side of the family that got left buried at the altar.

Not the radiation poisoning, but the deeper sickness. The thrills. The Small side of the family has always seemed so mild-mannered, but seeing my Mom not half an hour ago, it was like an entirely new person. Someone I’d never seen before.

What’s wrong with me?

---

The room’s quiet is like the deep breath before a plunge into deep waters. I’m surrounded by the sterile whites and tans of the hospital room, the beeps of the machines punctuating the silence like morse code. Light filters through the blinds, casting long, lazy stripes across the floor, a zebra’s hide stretched out over linoleum. The door’s hinges give a muted groan as it opens, admitting a slice of the world beyond my four walls.

Jamila comes next, her presence like a cool breeze, eyes meeting mine with that same protective glint I know so well. Amelia trails behind, her gaze darting around, hands twisting together like she’s uncomfortable, despite the big cheesy grin on her face. I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to use as the real indicator, so I just look at Jamila instead.

Multiplex enters last, his broad shoulders taking up the space, a seriousness set in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. Since Diane… since Chernobyl… since, you know, December, there’s been a weight on him that wasn’t there before, a burden that comes with leading.

“Hey, guys,” I manage, my voice sounding too bright for the heaviness I feel inside.

Maxwell gives a small nod, his braids swaying slightly. “Hey, Sam.” He doesn’t need to say more.

Jamila steps forward, her hand reaching out to squeeze mine. “How are you holding up?” she asks, and I can hear the unsaid words, the ‘I’ve missed you,’ the ‘I wish I could make this better’. Dozens of sentences all packed into one like a trash bag full of raccoon food.

I want to say ‘I’m fine,’ to put on that brave face, but with Jamila, I don’t have to pretend. “I’m going stir-crazy,” I admit, “I need updates, I need to know what’s happening out there.”

Jamila exchanges a look with Multiplex, a silent conversation passing between them before he speaks up. “After the shootout with the NSRA, we got a good number of the Kingdom’s associates. But between then and now, it’s been quiet.”

“Don’t say too quiet,” I joke. Quiet isn’t good, not in our world. Quiet means something’s brewing, and I hate that I’m not out there to help simmer it down.

“No, actually, it’s just the right amount of quiet,” he says, not joking. “I know that means something’s up, but it’s nice to have the edge off without Diane around. Puppeteer is back on the grind and we’re covering a lot of ground. Your stick-man friend has been a great asset, too.”

Amelia chimes in, her voice light but with an edge of steel I don’t usually hear from her. “No one’s turned yet, but I heard they’re keeping the pressure on.”

Multiplex’s eyes catch mine, and I see the weight of command on him, the need to keep us safe, to keep the city safe. “We’re doing what we can, Sam. But you need to focus on getting better. We need you at your best.”

Jamila’s fingers tighten around mine, her touch a gentle anchor in the storm of my thoughts. “How’s your therapy going, Sam?” she asks, steering the conversation away from the dangerous waters of superhero politics.

I shrug, a half-hearted attempt to play it down. “It’s okay, I guess. Lots of exercises, stretching… you know, boring stuff.” My gaze drifts to the window, to the world beyond that I’m itching to rejoin.

Amelia leans in, her voice a soft chime. “It’s important, though. You’re getting stronger every day, Sam. We all see it.”

I offer her a small smile, grateful for her optimism even if I don’t fully share it. “Thanks, Goss. I’m trying, really.”

Maxwell, still by the window, speaks up. His voice is steady, measured. “Strength isn’t just physical, Sam. You’re showing a lot of it just by dealing with all this.”

His words are comforting, but I can’t shake off the feeling of being sidelined, of being out of the loop. “I just wish I could be out there with you guys. You know, helping.”

Multiplex, silent until now, his eyes scanning the room with an intensity that speaks of his constant vigilance, finally speaks. “You are helping, Sam. By getting better. We need you in top form, not rushing back and risking more injury.”

His words are pragmatic, sensible, but they don’t quell the burning desire inside me to be doing more.

Jamila squeezes my hand again, a silent promise of support. “We’re managing out there. And we’re keeping the streets safe. For you, for everyone.”

Amelia adds, “And we’ve got some new strategies we’re working on. You’ll be back in the thick of it before you know it.”

I cut in, unable to contain my impatience. “Guys, I appreciate the pep talk, really, I do. But I need to know what’s happening out there. The crime rates, the Kingdom’s movements, anything. I’ve been cooped up in here way too long.”

Multiplex’s gaze flicks to me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Crime’s been as expected. A slight uptick in petty thefts and gang activities. The usual players trying to fill the void left by the Kingdom’s recent setback.”

Maxwell adds his bit, his voice a low rumble. “Some new players are trying to make a name for themselves, nothing we can’t handle.”

I listen, absorbing every word, every bit of information. It’s like pieces of a puzzle, and I’m trying to fit them together, to see the bigger picture from my confined vantage point.

“But what about the Kingdom? Any leads on their next move?” My question is sharp, edged with the frustration of being out of the loop.

Multiplex’s response is immediate, his tone firm. “We’re working on it, Sam. We’ve got our best on it. But it’s a waiting game right now.”

His answer isn’t satisfying, but I know it’s all he can give me. The Kingdom is a shadow, always lurking, always planning. And here I am, stuck in a hospital bed, feeling like a caged animal.

Jamila squeezes my hand again, a silent message of understanding. “We’re doing our best, Sam. And when you’re back, we’ll be even stronger.”

I nod, trying to tamp down the restlessness, the itch to be doing something more. But I know they’re right. I need to heal, to get back to full strength. I let go of Jamila’s hand and pull away. The conversation shifts, and I can’t help but push for more information, “Have you intercepted anything about the Kingdom targeting me? I mean, I did kind of blow up their big plan with Federov.”

There’s a pause, a tension that wasn’t there before. Multiplex’s face turns serious, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. “We’ve been keeping tabs on their communications as much as we can. There’s been chatter, but nothing concrete.”

“Chatter?” I press, my heart rate spiking. “About me?”

He hesitates, then nods slowly. “Yes, about you. They’re not happy about what happened with Federov. But we haven’t picked up any direct threats yet.”

That’s not exactly comforting. I feel a cold knot of fear in my stomach, but I push it down. I can’t afford to be afraid, not now. “So, I’m a target.”

Jamila interjects, her voice gentle but firm. “Which is why we’re not taking any chances. You’re being watched over, Sam. We’re making sure you’re safe.”

That’s when it hits me. The constant presence outside my room, the feeling of being watched. It wasn’t just paranoia. “You mean… I’ve been under surveillance this whole time?”

Multiplex nods, his expression unreadable. “I’ve had at least two duplicates around the hospital grounds at all times.”

“Are you a duplicate right now?” I ask, looking towards the window. I don’t know why it feels suddenly hard to look them in the face, but it does. Like there’s a sudden pressure in my nostrils.

“Sort of a meaningless question, but, no, this is the oldest body,” he replies, straightforwardly. “Number seven is currently on the rooftop. The other ten are busy with other assignments.”

I lean back against my pillows, the reality of it all sinking in. I’m being watched, guarded, because I’m vulnerable. Because I’m a target. It’s a strange feeling, knowing I’m being protected and observed at the same time. It’s like I’m valuable, but also a liability.

Amelia tries to lighten the mood, her voice a little too bright. “Hey, it’s like you’re a celebrity with your own bodyguards!”

I manage a weak smile, but the joke doesn’t quite land. The idea of being watched, of being a target, it’s not something to laugh about.

Maxwell speaks up, his voice low and steady. “We’re doing everything we can to keep you safe, Sam. You’re not just a teammate; you’re family.”

I look at each of them, at their concerned faces, and I feel a surge of gratitude mixed with frustration. I hate being the weak link, the one who needs protecting. But I also know they’re doing this because they care, because they don’t want to lose another member of their family.

“Yeah, and my family’s in danger, too. Do we have eyes on them, or is that another thing I need to start talking about my therapist about?” I ask. “Like, myself aside, what if they come shoot my Dad or my Mom while they’re in the waiting room here?”

I feel a wave of bile rise in my throat. Multiplex, for I think the first time since I’ve met him, puts a hand on my shoulder.

“We have eyes on all your known relatives and associates, including your school. I don’t want to sound like a corporate freak, but you’ve gone from being just another rookie to an extremely potent asset in an extremely short period of time, and I think it would behoove local superhero community, hell, even the national superhero community, to keep you safe. So I’ve been calling in favors. Even if you never put on the cowl again, I would personally lobby for you to have a security assignment for the rest of your days, that’s how important what you did was for this city,” Multiplex says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“Am I allowed to ask for favors?” I ask, rolling over onto my side in my hospital bed, facing the window. Away from everyone else.

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Multiplex replies, which is as good as I’m going to get from him, I guess.

“Joshua Pleasants, you know, that smelly corpse guy. He’s innocent. Any chance we can pull some strings there?” I ask.

I can just feel Multiplex’s eyebrow raising. I turn over just enough to see him turning to face Maxwell, who just shrugs. “I don’t really have the authority to unilaterally call off a hunt for a wanted murderer, Sam. But… I trust your judgment and I’ll see what I can do.”

“The Kingdom framed him,” I respond, as bluntly as possible.

“I… see,” he says, looking past me, towards the window. “And you’re sure of this?”

“A hundred percent certain. I have footage on my phone. I’ll send it to you. And go talk to, uh, what’s his name, Agent Torres, the NSRA guy. Can you guys do that for me?” I ask, sweeping my gaze across this motley crew.

Amelia immediately throws me a salute, her big puffy sweatshirt flopping as she does. “Right away, sir!”

Multiplex looks slightly exasperated. “Send me that footage when you have a minute. For what it’s worth, I thought the evidence against him was already paper thin, it shouldn’t be too hard. Even if he’s losing in the court of public opinion.”

“Bah, don’t give me that stuff,” I mumble, rolling back over, away from the group. “Anything else?”

The air feels stale, like a bag of potato chips that’s been left open for too long. I don’t know why, but my mood has gone sour and foul. My arms ache, and I have a headache, and the bad hospital food hasn’t been sitting right with me since lunch. The sun is slowly going down. “No, I think that’s it,” Multiplex replies, thumping my shoulder again.

“Take care, Sam. We’ll be around,” Maxwell says, and from him, I believe it. Everyone files out, their footsteps a jelly-like mass of indistinct shoes on tile.

It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that Jamila hasn’t left. And then another minute to say something.

“Sorry I’m a shitty girlfriend,” is not what I intend to say, but it’s what comes out anyway.

The room feels emptier now, just Jamila and me, and the heaviness in the air is almost tangible. She hesitates by the door, her eyes flicking between me and the floor.

“Sam, you’re not–” she starts, but her voice trails off, unsure.

“No, I mean it. I’ve been a crappy girlfriend. I’ve been so wrapped up in… all of this.” I gesture vaguely around the room, encompassing the hospital, the superhero stuff, everything.

Jamila moves closer, perching on the edge of my bed. “It’s not like I’ve been the perfect partner either. I mean, with everything going on…”

“Yeah, but that’s no excuse for me to be all… whatever this is.” I can feel the frustration bubbling up inside me, a noxious mix of guilt and helplessness.

“We’re both just… figuring this out, Sam. It’s not like there’s a manual for dating when the two of you are superheroes,” Jamila says, trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, maybe there should be. ‘Dating for Dummies: Superhero Edition.’”

There’s an awkward silence, and then Jamila reaches out, her hand hesitating in the air before touching my arm. “We’re just teenagers, Sam. We’re going to make mistakes.”

“I just feel like I’m making more than my fair share of them,” I admit, my gaze drifting to the window, the sky outside turning shades of orange and purple as the sun sets.

“You’re dealing with a lot, Sam. More than most people our age,” Jamila says softly, her voice laced with something that sounds a bit like pity.

“I don’t want your pity, Jamila. I want… I don’t even know what I want.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it.

“It’s not pity, Sam. It’s just… concern. For you.” Jamila’s voice is steady, but I can hear the undercurrent of hurt.

I sigh, running a hand through what used to be my hair but is now empty air. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just… not good at this. Any of this.”

Jamila gives a small, sad smile. “Neither am I. But we’re trying, right? That’s got to count for something.”

“Does it? Sometimes I feel like we’re just making it worse.” The words are out before I can censor them, raw and unfiltered.

Jamila’s hand falls away from my arm, and she looks down, her hijab casting shadows over her face. “Maybe we are. But we’re also learning, growing. Isn’t that part of it?”

“Growing into what, though? More messed-up teenagers trying to save the world?” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Maybe. Or maybe just two people trying to figure out how to be together in a world that doesn’t make it easy,” Jamila says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“You sound like a self-help book,” I try to joke, but judging from the wince, I think it just made her more upset. “Sorry. That was mean,”

“No, you’re fine. You have a lot of reason to be bitter right now, I think,” she replies.

It’s quiet for a while. A little too long of a while. A while enough that the sun goes down almost all the way. She shifts uncomfortably, her hijab slightly askew. Then, she fixes it, tucking some hair back under.

“What am I even doing? What are we doing? I don’t even know what a girlfriend is supposed to do,” I sigh, scrunching my hands up under my blanket. “I just wanted to kiss you, really bad.”

She smiles but I can’t tell if it’s sincere or not. She puts an arm around me. “That’s okay. I don’t think you need more of a reason than that at our age.” Then, she gestures vaguely around the room, encompassing everything from my hospital bed to the world outside, “it’s a lot to deal with.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re always so calm, so together. I feel like I’m just messing everything up,” I admit, a twinge of guilt knotting in my stomach. “Like I can’t stop throwing myself into danger. I’m gonna get out of the hospital and get punched back in by some new goon. I don’t know how you keep it together.”

Her laugh is short, humorless. “Calm? I’m anything but calm, Sam. I’m just as lost as you are. I just hide it better.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of our mutual confusion and inexperience pressing down on us. I can feel the distance growing, a chasm that neither of us seems able to bridge. I try to intertwine my fingers with hers, but then I get self-conscious and stop.

“I like you, Jamila. A lot. But I don’t even know if that’s enough,” I say, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. “I like listening to music with you. And hanging out in your room. And kissing you. And going to concerts. But like… most of those are just friend things. Right?” I continue. Almost desperately, I add one last note. “Do we even need to be dating to hold hands and kiss? Because if I’m holding you back–“

She shuts her eyes and puts a hand on my face, finger to my lips. “Sam. Breathe. I’m not going to break up with you while you’re in the hospital. Get better. Then we can have this talk later, okay?”

It’s like a punch to the gut, her words confirming my worst fears. You’re not going to break up with me while I’m in the hospital – so you will when I’m out? I’m not ready for this, not ready for any of it. The realization is as painful as it is clear. I swallow and suck in air. “Okay. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, but I do. I worry about it very much. Jamila stands, her body language hesitant. “I should go. We’ll talk, okay? When you’re better. And we have more time. Once we’re done wrapping up with the Kingdom stuff and can take a vacation about it.”

“Okay,” I almost whimper. She leans over, and just like Camilla, she kisses the top of my head. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Sam. No matter what,” she says.

She walks out the door.

I get a paper bag and start to hyperventilate. When it comes, the vomit is smooth and easy. Burns just right.

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