When Dr. Rockaway finally emerges, her expression is carefully controlled but not grim. That has to be good news.
“She’s conscious,” she says, and the words hit me like a physical force. “Responsive, oriented, asking for you. It’s going to be a long road to full recovery, but Jordan… your sister is going to be okay.”
I have to lean against the wall for support. After more than a month of uncertainty, of sitting beside her bed not knowing if she’d ever wake up, Amy is back.
“Can I see her?”
“For a few minutes. She’s still very weak, but she’s been asking for you and Henry.”
I walk into Amy’s room on unsteady legs and find her eyes open, tracking my movement as I approach the bed. She looks fragile and confused, but she’s awake. She’s really awake.
“Hey, sis,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion.
“Jordan.” Her voice is barely a whisper, hoarse from weeks of intubation, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. “Henry?”
“Henry’s safe. He’s perfect. He’s been staying with me, and he’s…” I have to stop, overwhelmed by everything I want to tell her, everything that’s happened while she’s been gone.
“Good,” she whispers, and I can see the effort it takes. “Tell me.”
So I do. I tell her about Henry’s first steps, about his favorite foods, about how he likes to babble at his reflection in the mirror. I tell her about Alexa and Ash, about how they became part of our family, about how Alexa taught me everything I know about taking care of Henry.
She doesn’t remember me talking to her while in the coma, and maybe that’s good. Those were vulnerable moments, and I need to be strong for her now, need her to think I’ve got it all together, and all she needs to worry about is resting and getting better.
So, I don’t tell her about the resignation letter in my pocket. I don’t tell her that I might have lost the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too scared to admit I wanted it.
But as I sit there, watching her reorient herself, listening to her ask about the people she loves, something crystallizes in my mind.
Life is fragile. Life is short. People we love can disappear in an instant, through accidents or illness or our own stubborn refusal to take chances when they matter.
Amy almost died. I could have lost my sister, my best friend, the person who knows me better than anyone. But she’s back now, and I have a second chance to tell her I love her, to be the brother she deserves.
Maybe it’s not too late for other second chances too.
I know what I want now. I know what I’ve always wanted, even when I was too scared to admit it.
And I know I have to go get it, even if there’s a chance I’m too late.
Even if there’s a chance Alexa will tell me no.
Because the alternative, living the rest of my life wondering what might have been, is no longer acceptable.
Not when I finally understand what family really means.
CHAPTER 28
ALEXA
The last towel snaps against itself as I fold it with perhaps more force than necessary, adding it to the neat stack on my kitchen table. Henry sleeps peacefully in his portable playpen in the living room, finally down for his afternoon nap after a morning of being more interested in everything except sleep. The house is quiet except for the TV playing softly, Ash at school for another couple hours.
I should feel satisfied. My interview outfit for tomorrow hangs pressed and ready in my bedroom closet. My résumé and portfolio are organized in my briefcase by the front door. Questions I’ve practiced answering are written on index cards and reviewed until I could recite them in my sleep. I’m as prepared as I can possibly be for what could be the interview that changes everything.
So why do I feel so restless?
Because being prepared for tomorrow doesn’t help with today. Being ready for my new future doesn’t make the present any easier to navigate. And having nothing left to organize or clean or prep means I’m left with just my thoughts, which inevitablydrift to the man to whom I delivered my resignation letter last night.
I move through the house looking for something, anything, to keep my hands busy. The breakfast dishes are already washed and put away. The mail has been sorted, bills have been paid, and I even cleaned out the junk drawer in the kitchen twice.
Maybe I should start packing. The realtor is coming on Thursday to discuss listing the house, and getting a head start on boxing up things we don’t need daily might be smart. But the thought of dismantling my grandmother’s house, of packing away the memories we’ve built here, feels too overwhelming when I’m already emotionally drained.
