I DON’T KNOW how I got back in this chair.The last thing I remember is the slam of the restroom door against the tiled wall.Now I’m here, sunk deep into the hard plastic.The only warmth comes from Matthew’s heavy suit jacket, which I pull tighter around me.My exhaustion is bone-deep, and my mind is blessedly blank.The soft scuff of dress shoes on linoleum pulls my head up from its stupor.
Matthew stops in front of me.The fiery anger from before has vanished, replaced by a smooth, impenetrable mask.
He looks like a stranger.
“You should drink some,” he says, holding out a cold bottle of water.
My fingers feel weak as I take it from him.Our hands brush for a fraction of a second, and the absence of any lingering touch is a sharp pain in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the floor.
He doesn’t say anything else.
Instead of taking the seat next to me, he moves to the row of chairs opposite, creating a vast, empty space between us.He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and stares at a fixed point on the scuffed floor.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks the tense stillness.A woman in blue scrubs appears, her expression tired but kind.She holds a clipboard, her eyes scanning the waiting room before landing on me.
“James Devlin’s fiancée?”she asks politely.
The false title makes me flinch, but I force myself to stand on legs that still feel unsteady.“Yes,” I say, my voice hoarse.“Amy.Is he okay?”
As I walk toward her, I see Matthew rise from his chair, his movements slow and heavy.He comes to stand beside me, an imposing figure.
The doctor’s gaze flicks to him, her curiosity piqued.“And you are…?”
“He’s—”
“A friend.”
His words cut through my own, sharp and definitive.His gaze is fixed on the doctor, refusing to look at me.
Friend.
The blood drains from my face as I stare at his rigid profile, my heart splintering.
The doctor clears her throat, her eyes glancing between the two of us.“Well, I’m Dr.Fenrich, the attending physician who saw to Mr.Devlin when he was brought in.”
I force my gaze away from Matthew’s stony profile to focus on the doctor.“How is he?”
“He’s going to be okay,” she says with a small, reassuring smile.“He’s stable.The gash on his forearm was quite deep, and he lost a significant amount of blood.That, combined with a very high blood alcohol content, caused him to lose consciousness.We’ve stitched him up, given him fluids, and something for the pain.He’s sleeping now.”
Every word she speaks is a weight lifting off my chest.
He’s okay.
He’ll live.
The relief is so immense it makes my eyes well up.“Can I see him?”I ask.
Dr.Fenrich’s expression turns sympathetic.“About that,” she starts hesitantly.“We’ve contacted Mr.Devlin’s parents.They’re on their way, and they have requested that he be moved to a private room as soon as he’s processed.They’ve also been very clear…” she pauses, her gaze softening with apology, “… they’ve requested no visitors at this time.I’m very sorry.”
My heart sinks.
The relief I felt evaporates, replaced by a sense of utter powerlessness.
Shut out.
Of course.
