“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do our own recovery over coffee. You look like you’re about to vibrate out of that chair.”
She laughed—really laughed—and followed him out of the surgical suite.
An hour later,they were across from each other in the Canine Café, each holding a paper cup of coffee, the post-surgical adrenaline dump finally over so they could relax.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Elise said, inching her chair closer to the table…and Wade. “I mean, I can, obviously, because I was there. But still.”
“You were more than there.” Wade put his elbows on the surface and pinned her with eyes the color of a Heineken bottle and just as intoxicating. “You were rock solid. I’ve had residents with three more years of training who shake like leaves the first time they assist. Nurse Millie never needed to step in.”
“Iwasshaking,” she admitted. “Everywhere except my hands.”
“I actually think surgery could be your calling,” he said simply.
She thanked him again, the compliment settling on her heart.
He studied her for a beat, eyes crinkling at the corners as his gaze shifted to the windows. In the distance, the rugged peaks rose, white and sharp and beautiful. When he looked back at her, his expression was warm and even a little sad.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
Oh, boy. Here we go.How serious is this disability? Is there a cure? Will you ever be…normal? Can you have children?In other words,How lost of a cause are you, Elise Hale?
She braced for all the questions she didn’t want to answer, and nodded.
“The other day,” he said slowly, “you told me you haven’t really dated. Ever. And I… I’ve been thinking about that and trying to make that make sense in my head. Since you’re obviously beautiful, fun, and smart, I’m guessing the decision not to date is yours. Will you change that? Are you willing to…get involved?”
Immediately, her mouth went dry. “Do I have to write a paper on this, too?” she joked.
He laughed. “Maybe a pop quiz later.” Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I want to know if I have a chance.”
Achance? She gave a quick laugh. “Easy answer, Wade—yes.”
“Oh, good.” He seemed visibly relieved.
She was relieved, too, that he hadn’t asked all the questions—but that didn’t mean he didn’t have those questions. Now would be as good a time as any to answer them.
“So,” she said, dipping one toe into the scary waters of her history and prognosis. “You might have sniffed around enough to know the basics of what, uh, happened to me.”
He nodded. “I was chatting with Nicole the other day. I stopped in the ski rental place she runs and I might have casually asked a few questions. I hope you don’t mind. I wasn’t prying.”
She waved it off. “Of course, it’s fine.” Nicole had texted her that he’d asked more than a few and it didn’t seem so casual, so this news was no surprise.
“She just told me there was a bad accident,” he added. “If there’s anything else you want to share…”
“I always start with this,” she said. “From a big-picture standpoint, we were all lucky to live. A jackknifed truck that crossed the lanes might have cost me the ability to walk, but no one in my family was killed, and that’s the most important thing to remember.”
He searched her face, a million questions in his eyes. “Can you tell me about the injury?”
He sounded like he had in the OR—a medically trained professional—so she went in that direction.
“My legs were crushed in what was considered a lower thoracic incomplete injury at first.”
He nodded slowly, not doubt understanding the words and what they meant for a little girl.
“So…that’s down around T10, T11, T12. Injuries at that level usually mean you lose motor and feeling from about mid-thigh down.” His voice stayed clinical, and careful. “But lower thoracic injuries don’t mess with the autonomic system the way higher ones do. That means no blood pressure issues, no temperature regulation problems.”
And no bladder and bowel issues, but he was too classy to say that out loud. He was right, though, and it was good news to have those “auto functions” working perfectly. As she often told people—it could have been much worse.
“And as the swelling went down,” she continued, grateful for the protection of medical language, “it became clear the injury was functionally complete.”
