I lie there, breathing through the pain, trying to piece together what happened to put me here. “The white truck.”
“Do you remember the accident?” His eyes are wide with horror, and I have to wonder what he’s seen and whether there was news footage.
Declan is very good at beating himself up over his mistakes. Usually it’s work- or sports-related—missing a goal or pass, losing money on an investment or not securing the client he wanted, but it’s not often extended to the people in his life, mostly because he’s not a relationship kind of guy.
He’s an extra loyal friend and he rarely lets anyone down. He’s the first to help someone move, or fix something, or paint a room. Need a date to a wedding? He’s a great wingman. Need a friend to go on a road trip? He’s always up for the adventure. So the fact that he ditched me for a random hookup hurts more than I expected. And now he’s going to beat himself up about it because the hurt isn’t just emotional—I’m in a bad physical state. The kind that tells me I’m lucky to be here at all.
I remember the guy in the white truck who couldn’t handle being stuck behind anyone, weaving through traffic, and using the merge lane to get ahead when he was tired of my cautious driving. He’d cut off a small car ahead of me, and it had been a flurry of hard braking. I’d followed suit, but with my tires and the slick conditions, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop in time, so I swerved toward the shoulder, hoping to avoid the car in front of me. Unfortunately, I must not have been the only person with that idea, because someone slammed into the back of my car, causing me to lurch forward.
After that, it was a lot of spinning and screeching and my own screaming. The memories are spotty. I recall bursts of pain I couldn’t escape and Declan’s voice, telling me he was getting help.
And now here I am. Helpless. And still in a lot of pain.
Declan calls in a nurse, and she checks my vitals, asking all kinds of questions that should be simple, but I can’t seem to communicate around the agony, which is worsening by the second. I try to tell her this, but my words are garbled and don’t make a lot of sense.
She hits a button, and Declan takes his seat beside me again. I hear his apology and feel the warmth of his hand on mine before the world goes dark again.
The next time I wake, Declan isn’t sitting beside my bed, but my sisters are. Light pours in from the window and the sunshine cuts a line across the end of my bed, highlighting my painted toenails. They’re probably the only part of me that looks halfway decent. I noticed a chip out of the nail on my big toe as well as purple and blue bruising.
“Hey.” Harley pushes up out of her chair and brushes stray hairs away from my face. She may be the youngest, but she’s also the most maternal. If someone needs to be taken care of, she’s the one who always steps up to the plate.
London drops the piece of paper she’s holding on the floor and stands, but hangs back while Harley fusses over me. “You gave us a real scare, Ave.” She turns her head away and takes a deep breath, as though she’s trying to keep her emotions in check.
I lick my lips. Like the last time I woke, I’m parched. Harley, being Harley, seems to pick up on that immediately and reaches for the water beside my bed. I let her lift it to my mouth, aware I don’t have the strength or coordination to do it myself. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep this time.
“Declan?” My voice is a raspy whisper.
London purses her lips, her expression shuttering. “We sent him home to shower about an hour ago. I expect he’ll be back soon.”
“He hasn’t left your side since you came out of surgery,” Harley adds.
“How long have I been here?” My voice gains strength with use.
“This is day three. They kept you sedated for the first twenty-four hours because they wanted to be able to manage your pain levels and keep you still,” Harley explains.
“How long will I have to stay here?” I don’t have time for long hospital stays. “Oh God, I missed the alumni meeting.”
Harley pats my hand reassuringly. “It’s okay. We’re taking care of everything.” She motions to a bouquet of flowers on the table next to my bed. In fact, there are several bouquets. “They want you to heal and so do we, so no worrying about work. Your new job is to rest and let your bones knit and your bruises heal.” Her smile is tremulous, her own fears bleeding through in her words and her expression. If this is bringing up memories I’d rather not face, I’m sure it’s the same for her.