“But his bloodwork is still a mess.”
There’s more of Marcus talking in the background. Charlotte sniffles and then sucks in another deep breath that I can feel all the way through the phone.
“Yeah, I know,” she says. “They… they’re thinking that maybe that’s his new baseline.”
And just like that, my stomach drops to my feet. New baseline? That would mean that the kidney and liver damage they’re seeing is permanent. I force it all behind the wall, force myself to find the numb center I’ve cultivated for awful cases justlike this. It takes me a few minutes, but then my chest doesn’t ache. Nothing aches. It’s just… just numb.
“All right. So they’re dropping the sedation to see if he starts truly breathing on his own?” I ask. When Charlotte agrees, I continue. “Do they have an idea of when that might happen?”
“They said it should be in the next 24 hours.”
“Okay. You’re still going to be the one that stays tonight?”
We’ve been rotating through who is there when. The last thing we want is to have him be alone if—when,when—he wakes up. And things can change so quickly in the ICU.
“I think Marcus wants to stay, but I’m going to as well.”
“Call me if anything happens,” I order her like I have every time I’ve left his room.
“Of course, Megs.”
She hangs up. I set my phone on the counter and slowly push up. It takes me another minute to flip on the kitchen light so I can figure out something to eat.
My eyes catch on the vase perched in the center of the kitchen window, the green of the vase and stems reflecting back against the darkness outside. The flowers are wilted. My stomach twists as I forget how to breathe. Do I even have lungs?
And all at once, I’m eighteen again, alone and drowning. No parents. No bond. No Omega. My knees give out. I crumple to the floor and weep.
CHARLOTTE
My entire world has narrowed to a singular hallway in the center of Manhattan, full of white walls and crappy art and brown linoleum floors. I pass one of the oddly stylized flowers in itsbland wood frame and faded white mat. A desperate frustration rises, but I shove it down like I have the last week. I adjust my bag as I walk through the hallway again, trying to keep a smile plastered to my face as I pass the reception desk without comment. There’s no reason to introduce myself. Everyone knows who we are at this point. The door to his room is closed, but one curtain is drawn, revealing the large bed and multiple machines whose chimes I can hear in my sleep.
Correction: my life has narrowed to a hallway and a large, sterile room designed by the same shitty decorators.
Several people sit on the room’s couches. I recognize Johnathan where he’s perched on the couch under the window. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a plain t-shirt. His eyes are tired, with dark circles underneath them, and a few days’ worth of beard cover the lines of his jaw, testaments to his own worry.
Next to him is a woman about my age, her strawberry blonde hair and green eyes just like Phillip’s. Sitting on the floor, leaning against her legs, is a man with short brown hair and a square jaw. He looks worried and tense, but his hand is gentle where he holds the woman’s on his shoulder. Taking up the rest of that couch is two men I’ve never seen before. The taller one has black hair shorn short on the sides but longer on top. A black and white tattoo traces up the side of his neck: two snakes twisted around each other. He seems the most relaxed of everyone. The other one is leaner with mid-length blond hair that falls across his forehead and blue eyes the color of a summer sky. He leans against the tattooed man, his hand indecently high on his leg.
On the other couch is a man with olive skin and dark brown hair. He’s dressed the most formal in slacks and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He traces shapes along the back of the woman who sits next to him. She’s plus-size withgenerous curves and black hair chopped blunt to her chin. She lays sprawled along the sofa, her head in the man’s lap.
I don’t know all their names, though I’m sure they were mentioned at least once over the last week. We’d all hesitated on them coming out, hopeful that Cole would wake up after he was weaned off the sedation medication Friday. But here it is, Tuesday, and there has been no real change. He’s been able to come off the ventilator, and his bloodwork has stabilized with no significant damage to any of his organs, but he hasn’t woken up. The doctors aren’t sure he will at this point.
The thought slashes through me, but I breathe through it.
When they’d told us yesterday morning that he might not manage to wake up on his own, we’d called his dads. Well, Marcus had called them, quietly explaining the update and encouraging them to come out if they were able. Maybe we would have had them wait a bit longer anyway, but his birthday is tomorrow. It feels wrong to not have his family here for that.
So now here they are, surrounding him and being with him, just like us. Part of me burns at them being here during my window of time to be with him, my one day this week that I don’t have rehearsal or classes at the gym. I’ve been the one with the least amount of time to be here, the only one of us whose job isn’t flexible enough to adapt around Cole being sick.
I swallow down the ball of rage that burns in my stomach before it can surface as a growl. They’re his family. I’m not going to complain about them wanting to spend time with him, too. Not out loud, at least. The man with the snake tattoo catches my gaze, but I turn away before I can make an ass of myself.
A nurse glances away from a computer, his smile warm if a bit brittle. Megan’s are like that sometimes, especially when it’s been several rough shifts in a row. He stands and holds out his hand.
“I’m Jacob,” he says. “I’ll be Cole’s nurse for the next few days.”
“Charlotte,” I offer. “I’m?—”
“One of his Alphas, right?” He shakes his head and amends his question. “One of his bonded Alphas, I mean.”
When I nod, he tucks a pen into his pocket and checks his watch.
