A terrorist attack takes place in Canada during the widely loved politician's wedding. The horrible incident leaves hundreds of people dead, but the politician's son survives. Luckily, he meets a gorgeous med student in the hospital of who he just...
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july 1st toronto
I CERTAINLY COULDN'T APPRECIATE HER TONE OF VOICE POINTED IN MY DIRECTION, and therefore my you-get-as-you-act mechanism reverberated her manner, and I crossed my arms, put most weight onto my right hip and leg to amplify the sassy attitude. The fact that I went from a sweet, short girl to the act I had put on now must've offended her ego since both of her thick, dark brows came together in a frown. Then it was urgent time to hit her with the final round.
"He's busy."
He's busy. An answer so vague it irritated one, because of the lack of essential information to nose out what kept the subject busy. And it sure got miss Where The Fuck Is My Son irritated – she stuck her small nose up in the air and exaggeratively exhaled, acknowledging the fact that she was a little pissed off.
"Then get him for me. I need to see him," she said.
"You're two days late – he's doing amazing now. I suggest you wait in waiting room, or get something to eat in the cafeteria. The food is delicious here." I put my hands on my hips and shrugged.
"If I," she took a step closer into my personal bubble, and I backed off a little, "say that I want to see my son, you're going to make me see my son, you hear me? I don't know why you're trying to withhold me from seeing my own fucking son, but if you keep doing it, I can assure you that you will lose your little job, darling."
Just when I was about to say the next thing to completely throw this woman into a hole of endlessly burning fire, my ears acknowledged the sound of two perfectly inflated wheelchair tires rolling across the neat hospital floor, and a little louder breathing than one normally did. "Nova."
Sending Hart's mother one last glare, I slowly turned around to meet Hart's eyes. The brown irises took the color of honey, because of the rays of sunshine peeking through the curtains in his room. As the bright rays seemed to annoy Hart, he held his hand in front of his face, and granted me that typical smile of his. I blinked slowly in response, and just looked down at my Converses. Each time I looked at them, they appeared to be even more messed up.
Hart breathed in before continuing to talk. "I saw you leave the oncology department, and I wanted to catch up with you, but yeah . . ." He looked down at his wheelchair and shrugged, "sort of had to take the elevator. And I see you've met Angela, my mother."
"I sure did," I muttered.
"I wonder what such a busy journalist would be doing in Toronto's hospital. I thought you were in Asia, or was it Europe? Oh right, you're here to visit your son who nearly died in a terrorist attack." He moved to his bed, passing his mother who hadn't said a word ever since he had come in with a dry smile, and turned on the television to immediately swap to Spotify. After typing in a song, he turned his wheelchair to his mother and patiently waited for the song to start. "I suppose you're not here to offer your sincere condolences with the passing of my father, so it must be an interview you're willing to do for your new article. It'll sell like hotcakes, because you know you're the first to interview Sean Feingold's surviving son – he's seen it all, the whole explosion, everything."
